


Elementary 04: The Montague Street Years (1876-1878)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Bath Sex, Blindfolds, Destiel - Freeform, Flexible Cas, Gay Sex, London, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay, Rough Sex, Scenting, Sex in a hansom cab, Sex on a rug, Sharing Body Heat, Theft, Trains, sex on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case 4. FAMILY MATTERS (The Case Of Vamberry The Wine-Merchant)<br/>Case 5. EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN (The Case Of Vittoria The Circus Belle)<br/>Case 6. BLOOD BROTHER (The Case Of The Old Russian Woman)<br/>Case 7. THE HAMMER OF THE GODS (The Case Of The Aluminium Crotch)<br/>Case 8. JUS IN BELLO (The Case Of Ricoletti Of The Club Foot, And His Abominable Wife)<br/>Case 9. HOOK MAN (The Case Of Mrs. Farintosh's Opal Tiara)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Montague Street may seem to be an unlikely setting for someone seeking basic accommodation in Victorian London. It runs for but a few hundred yards, from Russell Square in the north to Great Russell Street in the south, its western side now dominated by the ever-expanding British Museum. During our time there, there were still some separate houses at the Great Russell Street end, opposite our own house (whose number, of course, I shall not reveal for the sake of its present owners). Our landlady for those two happy years, the estimable Mrs. Aliana MacAndrew, had inherited her property from a distant cousin and, following the passing of her husband, had decided to live in a small part of it and rent out the remainder. She had been there some two decades before our arrival, and even though our stay there was short, I look back on the time with fondness. My first home together with Cas....

I am often asked as to why there were no published cases from the Montague Street Years. One reason is that Cas was only slowly becoming established in his line of business, and many of the cases he solved were small if not trifling. Also, we were only there for some two years before circumstances forced us to move, and I had to face the terrible fear that, despite our closeness, Cas might wish for his own house. That he did not even hesitate before seeking out alternative accommodation for us both made me feel both unworthy and impossibly grateful that this blue-eyed genius had come into my life. I may not have deserved such a blessing, but I grasped it with both hands.

So, to the six cases, all hitherto unpublished, which Cas solved from our Bloomsbury residence. The first was that of Vamberry, the wine-merchant, followed by that of Vittoria, the Circus Belle. Criminality and science took us first east and then west of London, followed by Cas' first case involving political affairs (and my first meeting with his truly obnoxious brother, Balthazar). Finally, there was a case when a precious object was stolen from a moving train, whose solution brought mixed emotions for his client.


	2. Case 4: Family Matters (1876)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, the case concerning Mr. Vamberry the wine-merchant.

I

'I know I am not the easiest person in the world to get along with'.

If there was one way in which I hated my new room-mate, it was his ability to look perfectly serene in company whilst just ten minutes before, he had had me pinned to the bed with my legs wrapped around him whilst I had been very thoroughly pounded into the middle of next week. Yet although he was generally scruffy – and his hair was a near-permanent disaster area – he could maintain polite conversation just moments after coitus, whilst I felt that I might as well be carrying one of those walking billboards with 'Yes, we just did it!' emblazoned in glowing pink paint! He could go from being a sex-starved maniac one minute to looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth the next. It was just not fair!

The lodgings in Montague Street were small to the point of being cramped – my bedroom was almost fifty per cent bed! - although the main room was just about adequate. It had the definite benefit of being within walking distance of the surgery, which with my limited income was very welcome, especially with the hearty meals that Mrs. MacAndrew laid on for us. She expressed to me the opinion that my friend looked severely undernourished ('braw skinny as a rake' were her exact words), and seemed determine to put some flesh on those bones. Cas was actually taller than average, but always managed to carry himself in such a way to seem short. 

Of course, I could never have a good thing – a great thing, even – without worrying about it. Within days of moving in, I was fretting over exactly what sort of relationship I had with the youngest son of the man without whom I may well have lost my home. After we coupled, Cas always made a point of returning to his own room. I supposed that this was to keep up appearances with Mrs. MacAndrew – one cannot easily make a bed look slept in without sleeping in it – but after a few days, I found myself wishing for more, even if we were both alphas. Quite what more there could be, I had no idea, yet I knew I wanted it. I would find myself thinking about the man whilst out on my rounds, often at the most inconvenient of times....

Ahem!

+~+~+

Like all 'unattached' doctors of the time, I split my time between my practice work and attending people who called at the house, usually by going to their homes. Our house was in a middle-class area, but to the north lay the slums of St. Pancras, whilst to the south was the gentle bustle of Covent Garden (I quickly realized that the apparent wealth or not of my potential patient was absolutely no indication of their readiness to pay their bills when due). I was therefore out for much of the day, and was perhaps not the best company when I returned, tired and footsore. Yet Cas was always there waiting for me, and I increasingly wondered just what he actually did all day. Of course he did not need to work, but did he not become bored?

One of the most frequent visitors to Montague Street was a tall, muscular-looking dark-skinned gentleman, bald but with one of those terrible 'goaty' beards that were occasionally for some reason thought fashionable (Sammy had gone through a period when he thought one such atrocity made him look older and wiser, but the derision he had gotten from the village girls had soon made him shave it off). I noticed too that this man spoke with a slight foreign accent when we exchanged greetings a few times in the hallway. One such time was when I returned from my rounds in late September, so when I mounted to our room, I mentioned his presence to Cas.

“That is Sergeant Victor Henriksen, from the local station”, he explained, without looking up from his book. “He comes from Curaçao in the Dutch West Indies, and spent some time in New York before moving to London. A most intelligent man; he should go far provided his superiors rate intelligence above skin colour.”

“What was he doing here?” I asked, curiously.

“He wished to consult me on a case.”

“Consult you?” I said incredulously. Perhaps a little too incredulously; Cas actually looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow at me.

“I am a consulting detective”, he said a little plaintively, as if that was something I should have known. 

“So you solve crimes for a living?” I asked. 

“Indeed”, he said, seemingly thinking the discussion at an end as he returned to his book.

“Do you go out and find clues?” I asked eagerly.

He glanced up from his book, the look on his face suggesting that he was seriously doubting my sanity.

“I am not a bloodhound to go chasing down the criminals”, he said loftily. “People like Sergeant Henriksen bring their problems to me, and I think about them before telling them the answer.”

“That is impossible!” I said hotly. “You cannot solve crimes by merely sitting in your chair and thinking about it!”

He looked at me consideringly for a moment.

“You have a new patient, who is more than well-off”, he observed. “They live some distance from here. The man, or possibly his wife, is miserly, and they keep a poor class of servant. They paid cash, and they possess at least one cat.”

I stared at him in astonishment. 

“Who told you that?” I demanded.

“Your trousers, to start with”, he replied to my utter confusion. I sat down opposite him.

“Explain”, I demanded, then added a “please” at his raised eyebrow. He sighed, and finally put down his book.

“You wore your best trousers, and had them pressed before you left this morning”, he explained. “You only do that when you are attending one of your richer patients. You also took that useful little brush you borrow sometimes from our estimable landlady, the one that removes cat hair most effectively. Your eyes are also red, as you do not respond well to the presence of a feline in your vicinity.”

“And the miserliness?” I asked.

“All the best houses have gas-lighting now, but your hat shows a tallow mark that was not there this morning”, he said. “Thus despite their wealth, they have chosen not to spend money updating their lighting, plus their servants were careless with your property. Also, you only take a cab when you can afford it. It is raining slightly, yet the coat you hung up is dry. Therefore you took a cab home, and since you left your wallet behind this morning in a fit of absent-mindedness, they paid cash.”

It seemed annoyingly obvious when he explained it that way. 

“What did the sergeant want?” I asked. “A new case for you?”

“Not exactly”, Cas frowned. “He came mainly to tell me some developments concerning a murder inquiry I was assisting him with.”

“And did you identify the murderer?” I asked.

“Not yet”, Cas admitted with what I thought was more than a shade of reluctance. 

“Oh.”

Cas hesitated.

“The sergeant did have another small matter that he thought might interest me”, he said. “Quite fitting, really.”

“Fitting?” I asked. “How, pray?”

“Well bearing in mind you have been in on three of my cases already, this one seems singularly appropriate”, he almost smiled. “It is the Case of the Fourth Case!”

II

I looked at him in confusion.

“It is a very small thing”, Cas said, “but the person who stands to be affected by the case if it is not cleared up is a good friend of Sergeant Henriksen. It is probably nothing, but I have a nose for these things. I may even have to leave the house and make some Inquiries.”

I smiled inwardly at his put-upon tone.

“The facts are, on the surface, few and simple”, Cas went on, his placing his bookmark in his book and putting it to one side indicating his apparent willingness to talk. “The sergeant's friend is one Mr. Martin Vamberry, a wine-merchant based in the docks. He supplies beer and wine, mostly the latter, to a number of public houses and clubs in the eastern half of the city. His business had been doing very well, which is why this may be serious.”

“Serious?” I asked. “How?”

“Yesterday morning, he sent out his deliveries on his two carts as per usual”, Cas said. “Everything seemed in order until that evening, when a Mr. Thomas Wilberforce, the owner of the Elephant and Castle public house in King's Cross, called round, claiming that he had only received three of the four cases of wine he had paid for. Mr. Vamberry checked his warehouse, but could not find the missing case. To placate his customer, he arranged for one of his men to take round a case of superior quality wine that same evening.”

“It all seems rather dull”, I said. “Probably someone made a mistake when doing the order, or something?”

Cas looked at me patiently.

“You do not see the seriousness of the case”, he said firmly. “For someone in Mr. Vamberry's position, his reputation is all-important. If it were bruited about that he were less than honest, he could lose everything.”

“It is hardly murder”, I muttered.

“Murder of a man's reputation”, Cas said firmly. “Besides, I do not take cases based on their seriousness, or for that matter the wealth of those affected. I take them on whether or not they are interesting. This one, I suspect, may be.

I felt rebuked, though also a sneaking admiration that he did not show any preference for those with more money.

“Perhaps the pub owner was lying?” I suggested.

“For one case containing just six bottles?” Cas queried. “The sergeant said that they only deliver an order of three to five cases every three months to that establishment. And it was not even the most expensive of the cases.”

“What about the delivery men?” I asked.

“Two local men, Mr. Frederick Thornton and Mr. Mark Allendale. Both decent workers with no real black marks against them; Allendale is something of an alcoholic, but his tastes run to beer, not wine. The landlord was absent at the time of the delivery, so they left the three cases they did deliver inside the lock-up in the back and raised the marker to show they had been. They delivered at around six-thirty in the morning; the landlord's wife came out and took the cases in shortly after nine.”

“The men did not know there should have been four cases?” I asked.

“The system, according to Mr. Vamberry's statement, is that the supervisor marks the boxes according to the order of delivery”, Cas explained. “He is certain he marked four boxes with a number '1' the night before – it was the first delivery of the day – but the men only found three at the back of the cart. The cart itself was subsequently searched from top to bottom, but nothing was found.”

“Who is the supervisor?” I asked.

“A Mr. William Thornton, brother to the delivery man of the same name. He is a rather more interesting character than his brother, as he had a connection to the sergeant's murder case, being one of several people who owed the dead man money. However, he stayed late at the warehouse doing inventory – there were witnesses – and did not leave until ten o'clock, whilst we know that the murder happened between eight and nine. The medical evidence on that point is quite definite.”

“Then it is all very strange”, I observed.

“Indeed”, Cas said crisply. “In the circumstances, I think it advisable for me to pay a visit to the Vamberry warehouse. Would you like to accompany me?”

I was surprised at his offer, but gladly accepted, and we fixed for an early departure the following morning,

+~+~+

It was raining when we set out the following day, and once we were in the cab, Cas drew the cover across to protect us. Or so I thought, until he took something from his pocket. It was a long piece of cloth.

“A blindfold?” I asked, puzzled. 

He grinned at me, and I had a sudden very bad feeling.

“No”, he growled, and I knew I was in trouble – his voice always somehow managed to drop another octave before you know what. “A gag.”

I stared in surprise as he fastened it around my mouth and tied it tightly at the back of my head. I was about to grunt a protest when he suddenly undid my trousers and pulled out my cock. And before I could do anything, he was going down on me, alternatively licking and nibbling his way along my rapidly hardening member. I whined, but fortunately the gag prevented most of the sound from escaping.

Then I realized too late that he had somehow gotten his hand in my trousers as well, and was probing my prostate as if he were the doctor, not me. There was no way I could survive the double assault for any length of time, and I tried to force him off only to belatedly remember that he was a lot stronger than he looked. With one more stifled moan I came violently, my body shuddering with the effort, not helped by the vibrations of the cab as it trundled along. Cas pulled back and took out his handkerchief to wipe his face, before removing the gag and using it to wipe me clean. I sat there, an English town doctor with an erection still mostly hard pointing defiantly towards the roof of the cab.

“What was that?” I croaked eventually. 

He grinned lazily at me.

“Didn't want to wait until tonight”, he quipped. He looked at his watch and sighed. “We should be there in just over three minutes, doctor. You may wish to tidy yourself up a little.”

I gave him an evil glare, but he just chuckled. Damn the man!

III

The warehouse was in one of the less salubrious areas of the docks (and that was saying something!). After trying to make myself look more presentable – of course Cas was totally unruffled, the bastard! - we went inside a cavernous building, in which two large carts were being laden with boxes. A thin, scruffy alpha stood between them, checking off items on a clipboard, and spared us a dark look. 

“Mr. William Thornton”, Cas observed quietly. “Not the most pleasant of characters, according to Henriksen. We will go straight to Mr. Vamberry's offices.”

We handed our card to the secretary, who took it in. She had barely returned when the door burst open and a tall blond alpha burst through, having to duck his head to avoid hitting the lintel. He scowled at both of us before striding quickly away. A similar-looking alpha appeared in the doorway, and sighed heavily.

“Mr. Novak, Mr. Winchester”, he said, bowing courteously. “Martin Vamberry, at your service. Victor says that you may be able to help me.”

He escorted us into his inner sanctum, a small stuffy room with only a narrow and dirty ventilation window on one side. He waited for us both to sit before taking his chair.

“I shall certain try to help you, Mr. Vamberry”, Cas said, his voice much warmer than usual, I noted. “Sergeant Henriksen was kind enough to provide me with some of the facts of the case, and I decided viewing the mise en scène might be beneficial to my understanding of the events that transpired. May I inquire as to the identity of the gentleman leaving in such a hurry?”

Mr. Vamberry sighed in a put-upon way.

“My brother Peter”, he said, sounding almost bitter. “My mother wanted us to run the company jointly, but she died giving birth to our other brother Benedikt, and my father rapidly discerned that Peter had little or no head for business. When father moved back to the Netherlands, I got the business and they each got a generous sum of money. My brother has spent his way through his inheritance, and is now demanding his 'rightful' share of the business. As you probably saw, he did not take the iteration of my refusal at all well.”

Cas raised an eyebrow.

“Are you the sole owner?” he asked.

“No”, Mr. Vamberry said. “When I expanded to this place, I had to turn over seventy-five per cent of the business in shares to various banks and lenders. We are doing well enough, but any sort of bad publicity would do us great harm. That is why one misplaced case of wine is so important.”

“Misplaced?” I asked, curiously.

“Yes”, Mr. Vamberry said “It was found at the back of the warehouse this morning, under a tarpaulin, marked with a '1' as it should have been. I have no idea how it got there. I have sent it round as an extra case to Mr. Wilberforce, the tavern owner who we inadvertently short-changed, as an additional apology. But I am fearful that, however the error occurred, it may happen again, further tarnishing my good name.”

“Did you check the case first?” Cas asked.

Mr. Vamberry looked puzzled.

“I opened it”, he said, “and checked the code on the side of the box. I cannot see any problem with that.”

Cas looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Is it fair to say, then, that it would be in your brother's interests to damage the business slightly, so as to make your creditors nervous?” Cas asked.

Mr. Vamberry looked shocked at the idea but, I noticed, did not deny it. Cas looked around the room.

“Is this where Mr. William Thornton was working on the night of the murder?” he asked.

The wine-merchant seemed to shake himself back to reality.

“Yes”, he said. “And the only way out, as you have seen, is through the main warehouse.”

“They might have been too busy to spot him leaving?” I suggested.

Mr. Vamberry shook his head,

“The men are entitled to a thirty-minute break each, which they take in turns between eight and ten”, he explained. “Because the warehouse is so cold, they always come into the outer office, where my secretary works during the day, then light the fire and play cards there. I do not mind, provided they avoid the inner office. And as you can see, there is no way anyone, not even someone as thin as Mr. Thornton, could possibly fit through the window.”

“Did anyone see him actually leave?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, Mr. Vamberry said. “The local policeman saw him coming out of the door just after ten.”

Cas was silent for some time, before speaking again. 

“When you sent out the replacement case on the evening in question”, he said, “who decided that Mr. Frederick Thornton would take it?”

“He volunteered”, Mr. Vamberry said. “He was in my office reporting about the hunt for the lost case when Mr. Wilberforce burst in. The Thorntons live but a few streets away from the tavern, so it was not far out of his way. I do not think William was overly happy with it, but he said nothing.”

“I see”, Cas said.

“I know it is none of my business”, Mr. Vamberry said nervously, “but after what the sergeant said, are you thinking that the missing case and that terrible murder are in some way related?”

Cas squinted at him.

“One more question”, he said evasively. “Has anything else gone missing from the office of late?”

“No, sir.”

I was sure there had been the slightest of hesitations before that denial. Cas pounced on it.

“Cushions or pillows?” he asked.

I could not see what he was driving at, but the effect on the wine-merchant was electric. He went deathly pale.

“How... how could you know that?” he gasped.

Cas smiled knowingly.

“It is my business to know things, sir”, he said. “We shall return with Sergeant Henriksen at nine this evening, when I hope to have this case wrapped up for you. You might also consider extending an invitation to Mr. Wilberforce to attend, as it was the theft of his property which led to this.”

He stood, bowed, and left. I scurried after him.

IV

The cab-ride back to Montague Street was mercifully uneventful, but on arrival there we found a smart carriage drawn up outside. Cas sighed in a put-upon way.

“My brother Michael has come to call”, he growled. “Damnation!”

I stared at him uncertainly.

“Do you need me there for support?” I ventured at last. “Or would you prefer me to take a walk for an hour or so?”

“The latter, unfortunately”, he said ruefully. “Michael is doubtless 'checking me out' either for himself or on Mother's orders. Most probably the former; I am sure Mother has already has the place thoroughly examined, albeit quite covertly.”

Somehow that did not surprise me. I had not yet met Cas' mother (and I did not realize then how fortunate that made me!), but I knew she was a veritable force of nature. Michael, the eldest brother, had married not long back and had had two children, but neither had been the much-desired Novak alpha. I nodded to Cas – we were on the pavement and in public, so I could not kiss him for reassurance, much as I wanted to – and set off towards Russell Square.

+~+~+

Returning an hour later, I was relieved to see the carriage gone. It was nearly dinner-time, and I hoped I was not too late for another of Mrs. MacAndrew's delicious meals. Though when I met the Scotswoman in the corridor, she informed me that my room-mate had said he would ring down when he wanted a meal, and would be happy to wait for it to be prepared. I wondered at that, especially as I was sure her knowing look was due to her habit of listening at keyholes, which in turn made me fearful as to how Cas' meeting with his eldest brother had gone.

“I see he has left”, I said, as I hung my coat up. Though our main room was not large, it was accessed by a tiny cloakroom area, and I judged from the sound of the fire going that Cas was there. “How did it.....?”

I froze. He was sat there in his own chair, naked as the day he was born, and fingering himself open as I watched. The blood left my brain for other parts so quickly, I swear it left me light-headed.

“Dean?” he reminded me. “I'm waiting!”

Somehow I managed to get my own clothes off, though doing so whilst trying to reach him at the same time nearly sent me over the coffee-table at one point. He withdrew his fingers and looked at me almost impatiently, and I resolved to make him pay for that. I managed to line up with hie entrance and pushed just inside, then stopped.

I have remarked before on how strong my friend was, even though he was both shorter and less muscular than me. Somehow he managed to grab me and pull me forwards, impaling himself on my cock and making he have to grab the chair sides to prevent myself from toppling right over. It quickly developed into a sort of strange reverse tug-of-war, with my quite literally having my cock pulled around inside of him whilst my body tried to keep up. My orgasm caught me totally off guard, and I almost sank onto the carpet, but instead he managed to pull me down on top of him.

“Now you know why I asked our landlady to delay dinner!” he teased. 

I blinked at him, trying to get my body and senses back into working order.

“Your brother?” I blurted out.

“Unless you wish me to bring up a certain lawyer studying in Edinburgh”, he said primly, “I suggest we avoid mentioning siblings at times like these. Let us just say that words were exchanged, and I needed to let off some steam.”

I managed to stand up and pulled him up to stand before me, our bodies resting against each other as we both recovered from our exertions.

“Feel free to let off steam anytime”, I said generously. “And I'm definitely hungry now.”

“For food?” he said teasingly.

I realized where his hand had just gone, and groaned.

“English doctor dies because of sex”, I muttered. “I can see the headlines now!”

“But what a way to go, Dean!” he grinned, fondling me steadily back towards hardness again. “What a way to go!”

+~+~+

Fortunately Mrs. MacAndrew's food worked its magic, and I was able to function more or less as a human again by the time we left later that evening. After we had waited outside the warehouse for the best part of half an hour however, I was beginning to suspect that the sergeant was not going to show. Fortunately he came hurrying along the quayside at that moment, panting heavily. 

“A stabbing in Soho”, he explained between gasps. “It was all hands on deck at the station.”

“Did you find the information I asked for?” Cas asked, a little abruptly, I thought. 

The sergeant regained his breath before answering.

“No connection”, he said, “but you were right about the debts. Still, you can't think.....”

“We had better go in”, Cas said. “Doubtless we have already kept poor Mr. Vamberry waiting far too long. Your men are coming later?”

“About five minutes behind me”, the sergeant said, now openly dubious, “but there's no....”

“Excellent!” Cas exclaimed, before hustling through the door. I shared a look of exasperation with the sergeant before we both followed him inside.

V

I could not help but notice that Mr. Wilberforce, the beta landlord of the tavern in the case, looked distinctly uneasy at Sergeant Henriksen's arrival. Obviously my friend noticed it too.

“Be not afraid, Mr. Wilberforce”, he said. “I merely thought that you would like to understand how your missing case of wine ties into a murder.”

The man's face turned quite pale. I half-thought he was going to faint.

“M... m.... murder, sir?” he squeaked. 

“Murder most foul”, Cas said gravely. He turned to Mr. Vamberry, and bowed. “And sorry, I am to say it, sir, but the police will shortly be in your warehouse to arrest the brothers Thornton, one for murder and one for aiding and abetting. The penalty for both is, quite rightly, death.”

“Sir, that is impossible!” Mr. Vamberry stated firmly. “We have witnesses who will state on the Holy Bible that William Thornton never left that office.”

“I do hope not”, Cas said gravely. “Perjury, even when unwitting, is a grave offence in the eyes of the law.”

The wine-merchant seemed to be trying to get some words out, but failed. Cas sat down and stretched out his legs in front of him.

“I will tell you how it all came about”, he said. “First, the motive. Mr. William Thornton was in dire financial straits, which the sergeant has just confirmed to me. His only hope of relief was the death of the moneylender Mr. Berwick, which would have resulted in a delay before the debt could be transferred elsewhere. He knew, however, that as a known borrower he would immediately come under suspicion, so he arranged a most cunning alibi.”

“On the morning in question, Mr. William Thornton arrives early at work and hides one of the four cases of wine destined for the Elephant and Castle public house. The choice of your establishment, Mr. Wilberforce, was by no means accidental, as I will shortly explain. He then fudges the paperwork, knowing that he can rely on his brother to make sure that the missing case is not spotted. It is imperative that it is noticed, but only at the right time.”

“Why?” Mr. Vamberry asked. Cas looked annoyed at the interruption.

“He does one other thing before everyone else arrives”, Cas went on. “He knows that there are cushions, pillows and sheets in one of the outer office cupboards for when people work into the night. He takes a couple of these from the cupboard and hides them behind the couch in the inner office. The day then proceeds as planned, until Mr. Wilberforce, as expected, arrives at five of the clock and demands to know why he has been short-changed. Acting on the recommendation of Mr. William Thornton, you, Mr. Vamberry, agree to furnish him with a superior case of wine, which Mr. Frederick Thornton will deliver when he leaves in an hour's time.”

“How could you know I would arrive here at five?” Mr. Wilberforce demanded indignantly.

Cas smiled.

“Your statement to the sergeant mentioned that you were returning from your sister's house, which you said is in Southend-on-Sea”, he explained. “You also stated that you visit there on the first full weekend every two months, and always combine these visits with business dealings which lead to your being away from the house at an early hour. I am sure that, some time in the recent past, you must have mentioned that to Mr. Frederick Thornton, which led to his fixing on you as a suitable victim. If Mr. Vamberry thinks to check, he will find that your delivery of wine was delayed to that day because his supervisor told him some of the bottles had not arrived as of yet. The Thorntons banked, correctly, on you realizing you were a case short and coming round to demand restitution immediately on your return.”

The innkeeper blushed.

“To continue”, Cas said. “Witnesses reported that Mr. Frederick Thornton left with the extra case of wine just before six o'clock. That, of course, was untrue.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“What actually happened was that, before leaving, Mr. Frederick Thornton went to the main office”, Cas said calmly. “The supervisor had a reputation for hating being disturbed, and always kept the door locked when he was working. Frederick Thornton was admitted to the room, and a few moments later, William Thornton left it, wearing his brother's coat. That in itself was unusual, as it was a hot day, yet the statements were that he had already buttoned his coat up. It was already dark outside, and outer office is poorly lit.”

“Hang on a minute there!” the sergeant put in. “I know the lighting is bad, but Mr. Frederick Thornton is about twice the girth of his brother. There's no way anyone could mistake those two.”

I gasped as I realized.

“The cushions!” I burst out.

Cas beamed at me.

“Exactly”, he said. “Most annoyingly for William Thornton, there is no-one around to actually see him leave – typically, one never gets a witness when one actually needs one! William Thornton takes the wine to the tavern – I believe you expressed annoyance, Mr. Wilberforce, that he left it at the door, though now you may understand why – then takes his gun, finds and shoots Mr. Berwick, and returns to the warehouse. Frederick Thornton leaves it as close to ten as he can – he has to remain in the locked office in case anyone tries to come in, so he can ask them to leave – then slips out unnoticed. I noticed, Henriksen, that in your case notes – excellently done as usual, by the way – you mentioned that there was a small explosion, possibly a firework going off, at about that time. I would wager that that was in fact a distraction caused by Mr. William Thornton so his brother could slip out. Our killer then waits until the local policeman happens by, and makes sure he is seen at the door by him, having established the perfect alibi. Everyone will swear he never left the office until ten o'clock.” 

We were all stunned into silent admiration.

“I do not see why Mr. Frederick Thornton did not just commit the crime himself”, Mr. Wilberforce said eventually.

“Family matters”, Cas said. “Mr. William Thornton did not wish his brother to kill for him, merely to cover up his own dark deeds. Unfortunately for both of them, the result will be the same.”

“What about proof?” the sergeant asked.

“Did you get Mr. William Thornton's coat?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, the sergeant said, handing it over. Cas held it up for critical examination. 

“He is as good as hung”, he said quietly.

“But how?” I asked. 

Cas pointed to the front of the coat, where a faint orange stain could be made out.

“That is the same paint used to mark the deliveries”, he said, “a job Mr. William Thornton always avoids. The only way he could have got a mark like this is by carrying a case of wine for a considerable distance, something that, according to his story, he never did. And if you look even closer, sergeant, you may spot that there is a tiny fragment of wood lodged in under one of the buttons. I would wager that that matches the wood of the fourth case.” 

There was a knock at the door, and the wine-merchant's secretary came in without being asked. She was clearly upset.

“Sir!” she blurted out. “The police have arrived, and they have arrested Mr. Thornton and his brother!”

I looked across at Cas, and saw what was undeniably a smirk, before he controlled his features and looked innocently back at me.

Damn, he was good!

+~+~+

Our next case would take us to the bright lights of the Big Top.....


	3. Case 5: Everybody Loves A Clown (1876)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the matter of Vittoria, the Circus Belle'.

I

Unless the reader has not been paying attention, they will have discerned that in many aspects, Cas and I were close. Very, very close. Yet at this time, just days after the Vamberry case, I not unnaturally assumed that he would be undertaking many cases to which I would not be a party. After all, I had essays to write and my work at the practice, and surely he would not want me around all the time. 

Well, apart from for that!  
   
+~+~+

I had a temporary change of room-mate in the days immediately after the conclusion to the Vamberry case, as Cas had to go and spend a long weekend with his family (his hang-dog expression made it quite clear just how much of an ordeal this was for him). I had thought to have a weekend by myself, only for Sammy to drop by out of the blue. Apparently there were some urgent medical samples that the University had requested from London, so much that they dispatched one of their students to fetch them. We had a good time together, and I most definitely did not mention just how close Cas and I were. Fortunately Cas' bedclothes had been changed just prior to his arrival, otherwise I may have had some difficult questions to answer.

I saw Sammy off at King's Cross Station, and on the platform he mentioned that he had arranged for a pie to be delivered to my house. I was through the ticket-barrier before the engine had cleared the platform, and home in record time, only to find that the 'pie' in question was a cardboard cut-out.

He was so going to pay for that!

+~+~+  
   
Cas returned, and predictably found Sammy's joke hilarious. I pouted my displeasure, but he made it up to me by locking the door and then taking me on the rug in front of the fire. Regrettably I can confirm that what they say about rug-burn is all too true, but it was worth it.

Two days after that, I was writing up my notes from the Vamberry case when Mrs. MacAndrew knocked to inform us that we had a visitor. Even though we had only been there for a few months, we both knew this in itself was unusual; our landlady only announced people she deemed ‘important’, though she had a soft spot for Sergeant Henriksen, whose arrival oddly always seemed to coincide with her baking days! I only hoped he could detect criminals to the same accuracy with which he detected her cakes from his station!  
   
Our visitor was a nervous young alpha in his early thirties, whose calling-card stated that he was a Mr. John Smith. I briefly considered whether this might be an alias, but I must say that he really did not look the type. The only distinctive thing about him was the decidedly unpleasant cologne he was wearing, which was both vinegary and overpowering. I was glad that the window was slightly open that warm autumn day. He had short and somewhat scruffy mousy brown hair, and came across as one of those who was a lowly clerk or some such. 

Which showed how much I knew, when Cas blew that impression clean out of the water.  
   
“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith”, he said politely. “Does your fisheries business bring you here today?”  
   
Our visitor must have seen my surprise, for he hurried to explain.  
   
“I own a large fish processing factory in Lowestoft, and we supply London with several varieties of fish, mostly herring”, he explained. “One of my investors is Sir Charles Novak, and when I mentioned certain recent, ahem, difficulties I had been experiencing, he recommended his youngest son as the person to help me.”  
   
“Please proceed”, Cas said, waving him to a chair. “This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Dean Winchester.”

Our visitor nodded to me, and took a seat.  
   
“I should begin by explaining that I have a large house in Essex, near Majestic Park on the edge of London”, he said. “I prefer to allow my factory managers up in Suffolk to do things themselves, and pay only irregular visits to keep an eye on them, though I visit the distribution centre in London rather more often. What has happened – or rather, not yet happened – concerns the circus that was set up in a corner of the park last year. It is not that near my house, yet it has had an impact on my life that I could never have foretold.”  
   
“The area the circus moved into had to be rebuilt first, and this led to a large influx of foreign workers into the area, many of whom have been Venetians who apparently prefer British to Italian rule. One of them was a gentleman called Salvatore Vincenzo, who was unable to get work on the site. He applied instead for work at my London factory, which is next to Liverpool Street Station, and his daughter Vittoria also applied. The work is mundane, but it pays a fair wage.”

My eyes narrowed as I noticed the slight hesitation when he mentioned the lady's name. There was definitely something there.  
   
“I must admit, gentlemen, that at the first sight of Vittoria, I fell in love with her”, he continued. “Of course I was her employer, which put me in a difficult position, let alone the ten-year age gap. Matters were further complicated when her father died in that outbreak of winter flu at the start of the year, which caused Vittoria to look for additional work elsewhere. And that, gentlemen, was where my troubles really began.”  
   
“Although her sweet nature is, I think, her best part, Vittoria is stunningly beautiful. Indeed, when I first declared my interest in her, I would have been far from surprised if she had refused me; with her looks, she could have any man in London. It was those looks which enabled her to obtain a job at the circus, which was just starting up. Many such places have a Belle, a girl of outstanding beauty, and the Galliano Circus was no exception. I agreed to change her hours at the factory so she could work evenings and the occasional afternoon at the circus, and all seemed set fair.”  
   
“Unfortunately it was at that moment that trouble broke, in the form of a Mr. Roderick West. On stage he is Roderigo Occidentale, the Knifeman From Hell, and he made it clear from when he first saw Vittoria that he wished to be considered as a suitor for her, the impudent young buck. She did not return his affections, but he has recently been pressuring the circus manager, a Mr. Pines, to have Vittoria included in his act. The thought of that horrible alpha throwing knives at my... that dear girl – I cannot allow it!”  
   
“The question is”, Cas said in his gravelled growl, “does Miss Vincenzo wish to allow it?”  
   
“She does not”, the man said ruefully, “but she needs the job to continue to afford her house, and I very much fear she may feel forced to say yes. But I do not trust the man.”  
   
Cas pressed his long fingers together.  
   
“This is difficult”, he said. “No crime has been committed as of yet, but if your fears of your rival prove justified, then we may be looking at a potential case of murder. Obviously Miss Vincenzo cannot move in with you and leave her house, so we must find a solution quickly. When might we wait on the lady in question?”  
   
“She returns home from the factory at three today”, our guest said, “and I know that she would have to leave to be at the circus for the six o'clock evening performance. You would catch her any time between three-thirty and five.”  
   
“Excellent!” Cas smiled. “If you leave her address with us, we shall visit her between those hours, and then try to formulate a plan of action.”  
   
I was somewhat surprised that my friend so casually assumed that I would be going with him, though I said nothing. Obviously, however, I must have shown some emotion, for once our visitor was gone, he spoke.  
   
“I am sorry if I assumed a little too readily”, he said, looking abashed. “I do however find your presence grounding, and would welcome it if you could come.”  
   
He looked at me so pleadingly that I knew, despite the semi-compliment, I was going to go with him. I sighed in a put-upon manner, and he gave me one of those smiles where his eyes crinkled at the edges. For an alpha, he could be such an omega at times!

II

Miss Vittoria Vincenzo lived at Number 30A, FitzAllan Gardens. Rather oddly, it turned out to be a single house standing athwart the road which was terminated by the railway behind it, a single goods line running into Liverpool Street Station. I could not help but notice that the numbers were a little strange; houses one to thirty (no number thirteen) ran down one side, then Miss Vincenzo's house, and then fifty-two to seventy back down the other side. Our target property was not small, and I did not wonder at the lady having to hold down two jobs to keep it up.  
  
The lady in question had obviously been apprised as to our coming, and welcomed us with coffee (I noted how Cas' eyes lit up at that) and cakes. She was indeed beautiful, of the sort that make-up would probably mar rather than make. I wondered how my friend would set about questioning, and his first question surprised me.  
  
“Have you received an offer for the house, Miss Vincenzo?”  
  
She looked as surprised as I was, but rallied quickly.  
  
“Yes”, she said, her voice somewhat melodic in tone. “How did you know?”  
  
“I did not”, he said. “But one of the things that I noticed when we arrived that the area directly behind the railway line is being developed, and surmised that this would make an easy access road from the City whilst avoiding the station. Your house is the only obstacle to that plan.”  
  
She nodded.  
  
“It has made for some bad feeling along the road”, she admitted. “Many of my fellow Venetians live here, and they assumed that it was going to remain a quiet little street. The thought of it becoming a busy thoroughfare worries them. The road has always been a – how do you say, cul-de-sac – but did once continue further, hence the missing numbers. When they built the railway they knocked down the houses at the end of the road and built this one.”  
  
“Who made you the offer?” Cas asked.  
  
“Pettigrew, Barker and Woods, the developers of the site you saw”, she said. “They offered me more than the house is worth – Mr. Smith kindly had it valued for me – but he advised me to refuse their offer, saying it was far short of what I should get. I did not understand, but since he knows business, I decided to follow his advice.”  
  
“One presumes that he meant that the developers would pay more because they should also be paying for the access across the railway line”, Cas said. “We must look into that further. Mr. Smith tells us he has some concerns about a co-worker of yours at the circus, a Mr. West?”  
  
She shuddered.  
  
“I think he means well”, she said, “but he is such a brute at times. Mr. Smith is sure he is behind the idea for me to be included in his act, which I so do not want. But I cannot afford to lose my job there, so I may have to. I have two lodgers here, and I still struggle.”  
  
Cas looked at her consideringly.  
  
“Miss Vincenzo”, he said eventually, “you mentioned that there are several other Venetians living in this particular road. Do you happen to know if your father sought to buy this house in particular, or if he was just looking for somewhere in this area?”  
  
“That I do know”, she said. “He hoped to buy number Twenty-Three a little further down the road, but he told me that it was sold to someone else, one of those people who, I believe the phrase is, sub-let to other people. Not my fellow Venetians, I know; a family from somewhere in the North live there now. However, the then-owner of this house heard he was looking for property, and offered to sell to him. My dear papa had some money put by, and we were fortunate that the seller was prepared to accept some way less than its value, as he wanted to move to be with a sick relative in the North of England.”  
  
“I see”, Cas said, and somehow I just knew he was on to something. “May I ask why your father bought the house outright, rather than renting?” 

“He wished to settle in England permanently”, she explained. “His own father was moderately rich, so he was able to buy rather than rent.”

“Quite”, Cas smiled. “You are clearly a lady of good sense, so I am going to be honest with you. Miss Vincenzo, your life is in danger unless you do exactly as I say.”  
  
She looked terrified.  
  
“Why?” she gasped.  
  
“You must trust me”, Cas said firmly. “In a moment I am going to run through a list of instructions, and if you follow them to the letter, all will be well. To the letter, Miss Vincenzo. Failure to do so may well result in your untimely demise, and we do not wish that, do we?”  
  
“No”, she managed, clearly terrified.  
  
“Excellent!” Cas smiled. “Now this is what you must do……”  
  
+~+~+

Next, we paid a call to the offices of Pettigrew, Barker and Woods, which was only a few streets away (that particular cab-ride was uneventful, and I did not know whether to be glad or sorry!). The only manager who worked there was away dealing with a client, which meant Cas had to ask his questions of the secretary, Miss Grissom. Sixty if she was a day, her hair tied up in a bun and wearing a severe black dress, she looked as if she had forgotten what a smile was.

I could not believe it. She actually simpered at Cas, and she was old enough to be his grandmother! He asked her several questions, then thanked her for her time before returning outside with me.

“They are indeed the developers for Laxton Marshes”, he said. “And she had one particularly interesting piece of information. Mr. Woods, her manager, scheduled an unexpected meeting with someone when she was away from the office the day before. A Mr. Roderick West. She only found out when she was typing up his notes from it, and she was sent out on an errand during the visit, which annoyed her greatly.”

“Did she say what the meeting was about?” I asked.

“Mr. West apparently inquired about the development behind Miss Vincenzo's home”, he said.

“I am surprised she was prepared to tell you as much”, I said, a trifle sourly. I still could not believe how he could charm that Medusa. He grinned at me.

“I am full of surprises!” he said.

He was!

+~+~+

Normally we would have taken a cab again, but both the circus and the estate agents lay on the same suburban railway line, and Cas decided a ten-minute journey behind an engine that looked about fifty years out of date was a better option. At least we had a first-class compartment to ourselves.

I did not know how much of a blessing that compartment was until we were pulling out of the station, and Cas was onto me as if he had been starved of sex for over a year. He had both my trousers and underpants down at my feet within seconds, and positioned my hands on the arm-rests of the seat opposite, my bending down whilst he quickly worked me open. I braced myself for what was to come – me, for certain – but he surprised me by easing me backwards as he worked. I wondered what his game was this time, until I realized he was pulling me down to sit on him, impaling me at one and the same time. 

Despite the window being closed, I was sure the blur I could see was my dignity disappearing somewhere back towards Willesden Junction. And the bumpy line was only accentuating my torture, working sometimes with and sometimes against Cas' thrusts, so I never knew if my poor prostate was going to be tickled or downright assaulted. My head jerked back and forth as he fucked me senseless from behind and jerked me off with one hand, and it was not long before I came with a cry that any passenger in third-class must have heard, despite the noise of the engine.

Cas eased me up and quickly wiped me off, helping pull me underpants and trousers back up when it became clear I had temporarily lost the use of my arms. Ironically it wasn't his swift and merciless fucking on a short train-ride that did for me that day, but when he had me re-dressed just as the train was slowing for our station, he leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

“Love you, Dean”, he whispered, before going to the door ready to open it when we stopped.

What?

+~+~+

Fortunately it was a five-minute walk (or in my case, hobble) to the circus, which enabled me to recover a little of my poise. We were unfortunate enough to miss Mr. Roderick West, who had gone into the city for some unspecified reason; instead we met with Miss Vincenzo, and she showed us around. Cas evinced particular interest in the knives and other equipment used by Mr. West, and again I just knew from his expression that he had seen something, though he said nothing. 

On the way back to Miss Vincenzo's changing-room, Cas stopped by a poster advertising the circus.

“Is this accurate?” he asked her.

“In what way?” she asked, clearly puzzled.

“Do the clowns really look like that?” he asked.

She smiled.

“A clown's make-up is all but sacred”, she said. “They could no more change the way they look than they could change their status or gender. Yes, that is how they will look tonight. Do you wish to attend?”

I smiled inwardly, thinking of Sammy's fear of clowns the one time a circus had come to Bamburgh.

“That is not necessary”, Cas smiled, “but thank you anyway.”

The two of us returned to Montague Street. Not by train.

III

I awoke the following morning from a rather odd dream involving myself, Cas and the flying trapeze. They say that dreams can foretell the future, but I quickly decided that in this case, it was physically impossible. I pulled on my dressing-gown and went into the main room, still yawning. To my surprise, Cas, never a morning person, had apparently already breakfasted, and had presumably either gone out or returned to his room. I ate alone, and enjoyed a mental run-through of my dream again.

Once I had finished, I rang for the maid to come and take the things away. I asked her if my room-mate had gone out, but she was sure he had not, and knowing as I did how terribly the front door creaked every time someone used it, she had to be right. Once she had gone, I went to Cas' door and knocked.

“Come in, Dean”, he called.

He sounded a little short of breath, I thought as I pushed the door open. Though that was nothing when compared to how short of breath I was when I saw him. He was on his back on the floor, and had somehow managed to bend his knees right back to behind his head. 

I was aware that, until quite recently, I had been an adult male and capable of those tricky things called words, but for now, they failed me.

“Mwah?” I spluttered.

“I spoke to Elasto, the India-Rubber Man yesterday”, he explained, as if he was not totally naked and presenting that glorious backside towards me. “Apparently he and I share something in common; the lack of certain bones in the body which prevent most people from doing this. If I could achieve a full erection, I am sure I could manage auto-fellatio.”

“Mwah.” No, still no words.

“A little help, Dean?”

What remained of my brain managed to pull itself together, and I almost fell over the rug as I stumbled forwards, whipping out my cock as I went. Damnation, the man had even prepped himself ready! Within seconds I was fully buried inside him, his own cock stretching out to the point where he could indeed take the head of it into his own mouth. This man was going to kill me with sex one day, but at that precise moment, I could not give two figs!

“Steady”, Cas managed, somehow managing to speak despite his mouthful. “Take your time.”

Just moments before I had still been sleepy, but I was wide awake now, and not even his words of warning were able to stop me from charging towards orgasm like an express train. And then I was coming, my body jerking at the blissful release, and my orgasm prolonged when Cas squeezed his walls around me and came all over his own face.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, pulling slowly out. “That was amazing!”

“It was certainly a good way to get you fully awake”, Cas grinned, unfolding himself and wiping himself down with a wet cloth before passing it to me. I stared at it suspiciously.

“You... you planned this”, I said accusingly.

“I had hopes”, he grinned. “Besides, Elasto taught me quite a bit. There are several other positions I should be able to achieve.”

“You're going to kill me one of these days!” I protested.

“But what a way to go, doctor!” he teased. “What a way to go!”

+~+~+

Once I had 'recovered', I asked if he thought the case was actually solvable.

“Oh, I have already solved it”, he said airily. “However, I rather liked dear Miss Grissom, so I thought it only fair to warn her that she might very soon be out of employment.”

“Why?” I asked, confused.

“Because there is every likelihood that the criminal investigation into her employers may force them to close down”, he said.

“But how are they involved?” I asked.

He was saved by answering by the announcement of a visitor, obviously an important one as Mrs. MacAndrew herself had come up. It turned out to be none other than Miss Vincenzo. Cas kissed her hand and led her to a chair.

“I should say now that the danger I feared is all but passed”, he smiled. “But I am expecting another visitor as well, and it would be best if we waited for him.”

“Who is that?” she inquired.

“Mr. Roderick West”, he said. She paled.

“Is that necessary?” she asked, a little sharply.

“It is if you wish to know the whole truth”, Cas said crisply. “It is not a happy tale, but it looks to end as well as could be expected.”

She looked at him dubiously, but did not make to leave. The maid brought coffee, tea and cakes, and fifteen minutes later she brought up Mr. West. Out of the outrageous pirate-style uniform he wore for his act (I wondered if he truly hated having to wear such a get-up), he looked utterly normal, but I was reminded that this was someone who could knife a victim at a great distance. I tried not to shudder.

“Miss Vincenzo”, Cas began, “I must start this tale with your father, as he was the man who, albeit unwittingly, placed you in your recent peril.”

“My father?” she asked, clearly puzzled. “How?”

“My inquiries at the estate agents confirmed what I had suspected”, Cas went on. “Your father was not outbid on Number Twenty-Three, as he told you. Whilst at the estate agents, he saw plans which showed that your current house would most likely have to be knocked down for an access road to the new estate to be built beyond the railway line. I also found that since there had been a road across the line before, there would be no problem getting permission to relay it. He immediately knew that the owner of that house could make a huge profit once the development became public knowledge, which is why he was prepared to offer more than the value of the house to its current owner. More, not less as he told you.”

“His plan, of course, was that he would be the one making a profit. As it happened, his departure from this earthly realm left you in possession of the house. Now, as I said, only the estate agents and the developers knew of the plans to build in the area at this time. However, as well as your father, those plans became known to a second man.”

IV

Cas turned to look hard at Mr. West.

“I don't know what you're talking about”, he said defensively.

“The estate agents were recently visited by a certain Mr. West, and the appointment was not logged in the schedule as was common practice”, Cas said. “It is, regrettably, the law of this country that a married woman's property immediately becomes that of their new husband. So the man who married Miss Vincenzo would come into possession of a most handsome property, ripe for selling.”

“I've never been to no estate agents!” he asserted boldly.

Cas turned back to Miss Vincenzo.

“I am very much afraid, Miss Vincenzo, that had you married in the near future, that marriage would have been curtailed by your untimely death in an unfortunate 'accident'.”

She visibly edged away from the other man.

“You wished me to become part of your act”, she whispered. “Heavens!”

“I still don't know what you're talking about”, Mr. West blustered, but I could see the fear in his eyes

Cas sat back and eyed him thoughtfully.

“The secretary there, a Miss Grissom, is a highly observant lady”, he said. “For example, she noted two things about the visitor she was not allowed to see, both of which he left behind. The first was a quantity of sawdust, which apparently came off his boots.”

Mr. West instinctively pulled his boots back a little, and I thought 'circus ring'.

“Sawdust can come from anywhere”, he said, but he looked increasingly worried.

“Actually that is not true”, Cas said. “It was extremely fortunate for you that Miss Grissom is exceptionally tidy-minded. She took a dustpan and brush, and cleaned the mess away before the cleaner arrived, depositing the dust in her own waste-paper basket. I was therefore able to take a sample, which I have since tested. And what do you think I found, Mr. West?”

My friend looked like a cat waiting to strike at a cornered mouse. Mr. West shook slightly.

“I found that the sawdust in the room was not the same as the sawdust used in the circus ring”, Cas said.

“What?” I asked, shocked.

“It was planted there by the estate agent's visitor, to give the impression that Mr. West had been there”, he said. “It is in fact from an extremely cheap piece of wood, which I would surmise was sawed for this very purpose.”

“But who would ask?” I queried. “We have only just started investigating the case.”

Too late I realized I had said 'we' instead of 'you'. The slight quirk of an eyebrow told me that that slip had not gone unnoticed, but fortunately he did not comment on it.

“This is how the crime was committed”, he said. “Our criminal – not Mr. West – learns of the value of Miss Vincenzo's house, and sets out to woo her.”

“But the only person I am seeing now is Mr. Smith”, she objected.

I winced. She was going to put two and two together.... yes, from the agonized look on her face, she just had.

“No!” she gasped.

“All marches well, until Mr. Smith makes a mistake”, he said. “I do not doubt that poor Mr. West here was to be set up as the man behind the future Mrs. Smith's untimely demise, but in establishing this, Mr. Smith mentions his concerns to his business partner, who replies that his youngest son is a consulting detective who might prevent any attacks on you, Miss Vincenzo. Mr. Smith is at first worried, but sees a chance to pull the wool over everyone's eyes. He immediately arranges a meeting with the estate agents, and they leave the sawdust in the room for Miss Grissom to find.”

“But Mr. Smith's cologne”, I objected. “It was.... well, strong. Would Miss Grissom not have noticed it?”

“Ah”, Cas said, “there we come to the matter of Mr. Smith's accomplice. Wanting to eliminate any risk of himself coming under suspicion, he sought around the circus to find someone who shared his dislike of Mr. West here. I would strongly suspect that that person was Giordo, the omega clown.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“Because the faint mark on one of Mr. West's knives was the same shade of grease-paint used by him, yet by none of the other clowns”, Cas explained. “Doubtless planted there by Giordio so it could be evidence of Mr. West's perfidy in pursuing a woman and an omega at one and the same time. I am sure it was he who suggested to Miss Vincenzo that she ask me to examine his rival's equipment?”

The lady nodded, still clearly shocked.

“And you think..... he may have killed me?” she asked in a small voice.

Cas looked at her, his face unsmiling.

“My dear lady”, he said gravely, “I am certain of it.”

“He should hang for this!” Mr. West growled.

“That is our problem”, Cas said. “Of evidence, we have very little. If we put this in front of a court, it would most likely be rejected. However, I have told my father that Mr. Smith is not to be trusted, and I dare say my soon to be ex-client will find his business affairs a trifle more difficult in the coming weeks.”

+~+~+

Cas was right. Sir Charles Novak pulled his money out of Mr. Smith's business that same day, and the latter sold it on less than a year later. I was not surprised to read, a further twelve months after that, that the body of a failed businessman had been hauled out of the Thames, having been stabbed in the back. It was a fitting end, bearing in mind his character.

Miss Vincenzo and Mr. West decided to settle elsewhere in London, and sold her house at a handsome profit. They married beforehand, but Mr. West insisted on his new wife keeping all the proceeds from the sale for herself, in a separate bank account. I am pleased to say that, although it took some years, a law was passed in this country allowing women to keep what was rightfully theirs to begin with.

Cas, God bless him, purchased a clown mask from the circus and arranged for it to be shipped up to Edinburgh as a surprise for Sammy, adding a spring-loading device so that the thing would leap up when the box was opened. A week later, I received a simple telegram with the word 'Jerk' on it. I laughed and laughed.

+~+~+

In our next case, Cas' client is one of London's top criminals, and blood turns out to be thicker than water.....


	4. Case 6: Blood Brother (1876)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the old Russian woman'.

I

One of the many things I (or rather my erstwhile publishers) were asked most frequently is how my genius friend survived for so long, whilst putting away people who, along with their families, would often kill or order killed (even amongst said families) in the same way most people would leave a note for the milkman requesting an extra pint. Part of the answer lay in this early case, which involved a famous painting, a group of gangsters, and a matter where Cas was asked to prove the innocence of a man's son, and both succeeded and failed so to do.

It was very Cas.

+~+~+

It was December, in the Year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-six, and London was getting ready for Christmas. Winter had come early that year, and the previous weeks having been uncommonly busy at the surgery, I was rewarding myself with a rare week off from both my studies and my surgery work. I was reading my favourite book (A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens) by the fire, when Cas surprised me with a question.

“How do you feel about art, doctor?”

I looked up, wondering what had brought this on.

“I do not really feel much about it”, I admitted. “It is not something I have a great deal of time for.”

“Have you read about the forthcoming exhibition at the National Gallery?”

I nodded. Relations between Great Britain and Russia were, for once, tolerable (although if the Bear kept sniffing around the ailing Ottoman Empire, the rapport would be short-lived), and as a result several notable Russian émigrés had got together to put on an exhibition of their various collected artworks at the Gallery. What I did not see, however, was why a display of Russian artistry should interest a consulting detective. He obviously saw my point, judging by his next words.

“A certain Mr. Khrushnic has asked me to call round to his house, to investigate the theft of a painting from his collection”, Cas explained. “A painting he had intended to loan to the Gallery. 'The Two Ladies'.”

I knew at once which painting he was referring to, because I had seen a copy of it on display at one of my patient's houses. It was one of those strange drawings where, depending on how you looked at it, you either saw a beautiful young woman or a disfigured old crone. A child's plaything perhaps, but the artist had done much more with it, using the background either side of the figure to show pictures from old and modern Russia. It was a small thing, barely bigger than the book I was holding, but artfully crafted.

“Another case, then”, I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. Not only did I hope that I might be allowed to be in on it, but Cas became somewhat more demanding on a sexual level when he was engaged on cases, something I bore with as the true friend I was. Naturally I pretended indifference at the prospect of both a new case and.....

The knowing look he was giving me suggested that I had been unsuccessful in hiding my eagerness. Damnation!

“I understand”, I said flatly. “You only want me for my body.”

Damn it, he actually growled!

“I would love to have your company on this or any case”, he said, much to my surprise. “However, this case has certain.... difficulties which may preclude your involvement.”

“Too politically sensitive, you mean?” I hazarded.

He sighed.

“What I mean”, he said slowly, “is that you will probably not approve of my client.”

“Because he is Russian?” I was surprised.

“No”, Cas said. “Because he is one of the top crime lords in the city of London.”

I was aghast.

“And you are still taking the case?” I protested.

He looked at me meaningfully.

“'To no-one will we delay or refuse justice'”, he said softly. 

I recognized the quote from Magna Carta, but even so, I still felt this was wrong in some way.

“That was what I meant”, Cas explained. “You are righteous and good-hearted, and this case involves some of the dregs of society. I would still prefer to have your company, of course, but shall quite understand if you would prefer not to involve yourself.”

I thought about it for a moment. Damn the man, he was right! The test of any truly civilized society was whether they gave justice to all, regardless of status. Once those in power began picking and choosing who was 'deserving', it was the start of a very slippery slope. Though I would never have admitted it, I had to admire Cas for agreeing to take the case.

“I am in”, I said firmly. 

He looked at me uncertainly for a moment as if doubting my declaration, but then managed one of his almost-smiles.

“Very well”, he said. “The facts of the case are, on the surface, seemingly straightforward. Three days ago my client, Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic, was visited at his London mansion by his youngest son, Gregor, who lives just a few streets away. Mr. Radulfus was out at the time, and returned to find his famous painting missing. He immediately sent two men round to his son's flat, where they duly found the painting.”

I looked at him expectantly, but apparently that was it.

“You said 'seemingly'”, I said, clutching at the one straw on offer. “You do not believe the son took the painting?”

Cas sighed.

“Mr. Khrushnic plans to lend the painting for an exhibition in five days' time”, he said. “I am following a line of reasoning which, if it holds true, would make that something of a deadline.”

“Did the son admit to it when he was caught?” I asked.

“He denied it point blank”, Cas told me. “He could not however explain how the painting came to be in his possession.”

“Who saw that the painting was missing?” I asked.

“One of the maids”, Cas said. “She went into the gallery to clean there, and saw the gap on the wall where the painting had been.”

“And you are taking the case on principle?” I asked.

Cas smiled.

“Mr. Gregor is the younger of the two sons”, he said, “so as a youngest son myself I may be a little biased. But Mr. Radulfus is himself dubious as to his son's guilt, and in his, ahem, business, instinct can often be the difference between survival and a terminal dip in the River Thames. I have said I will call round there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Will you be able to accompany me?”

“Gladly”, I smiled.

He looked almost human when he did that almost-smile thing of his, with his eyes crinkling at the edges. It was not at all cute. Or endearing. Or.....

God, I was so far gone on this man!

II

One of the (many) good things about Cas was that, in the cold months, he somehow managed to turn into a walking heater. I sometimes wondered if he was human, in that whilst everyone else was shivering in the December snows, the man sat next to me in the cab was radiating heat like a mini-furnace. It was just one of those things that the cab was so small that I had to sit close to him, and feel that heat all the way across the city.

Yes it was! And I did not whine happily when he put his arm around me, and even if I did, there was no-one around to notice.

In describing Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic's house as a mansion, I felt that Cas had if anything been understating the case. It occupied most of one side of one of the city's quieter tree-lined squares, but at least the front was fairly tasteful. A disdainful footman admitted us, and took us into a small waiting-room whilst he took Cas' card to his master. He came swiftly back, looking at us as if we had only marginally improved his opinion of us, and we were duly admitted.

Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic was an unremarkable man, slightly portly and clearly fighting a losing battle with hair loss, but also possessed of a pair of sharp brown eyes which zeroed in on me. 

“My friend, Doctor Dean Winchester”, Cas said smoothly.

My presence was clearly unwelcome, but before the man could object, Cas asked a surprising question.

“Your footman is Russian?”

Our host blinked, his objection to my presence forgotten for the moment at least.

“Two of them are, but not Feodor”, he said. 

“Then why does he have a Russian name?” Cas asked.

Mr. Khrushnic shrugged his shoulders.

“I believe he was christened Theodore, but took the Russian version of that name to 'fit in' here”, he said. 

“I only ask because I have made a study of phrenology, and his skull shows definite Central Asiatic tendencies”, Cas observed. “Possibly his mother is Russian?”

“I am sure she is not”, the man said, clearly irritated by the line of questioning. “I believed you are here to help investigate the missing painting, rather than the ancestry of my staff?”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “I think I would like to see it before proceeding any further, if that is all right?”

Mr. Khrushnic nodded, stood and led the way out of the room. After a considerable walk, we found ourselves in a long gallery, with the picture in question hanging on the wall immediately to our right. Unfortunately I could not make out much of it as Cas was almost immediately right up to it, much to the obvious concern of our host. The detective even sniffed at it dubiously, before straightening up. There was a distinctly knowing smile on his face.

“I think we should go back to your room, sir”, he said courteously. “There are a number of questions I would wish to ask, which may help in the solving of the case.”

“Do you think Gregor is guilty?” the man asked, sounding almost fearful.

Cas did not answer until we were safely back in the room we had started from, then he turned to our host.

“Why do you think he is not?” he countered.

Mr. Khrushnic reddened.

“In my line of business”, he said flatly, “I like to play my gut feeling. It once stopped me from walking into a warehouse where three men were waiting to kill me, so you may understand that I am rather attached to it. Despite all the evidence, this does not feel right.”

Cas nodded.

“I would like to speak to your son”, he said firmly. 

“I thought you might”, the man said. “He is waiting upstairs. I shall have him summoned.”

He rang a bell, and a few moments later a servant showed in Gregor Khrushnic. He was an unprepossessing young beta, blond and slim, with a weak chin. He looked at us both fearfully.

“I have just two questions for you”, Cas said crisply. “Firstly, did anyone know you were coming round to the house on the day of the theft?”

The man nodded, then looked fearfully at his father.

“Mrs. Wells knew, sir.”

“My housekeeper?” his father said, clearly astonished.

His son turned to him.

“I wanted to discuss something..... delicate, father”, he said carefully. “I chanced to meet her in the park last week, and she recommended coming yesterday because she was making your favourite apple and rhubarb pie.”

“The way to a man's heart!” I chuckled.

All three looked hard at me. I shut up, though I made a quiet mental note to see if I could speak with the cook about that pie. Cas nodded, seemingly satisfied with the young man's answer.

“Secondly, I would like to examine the ring you are wearing.”

That surprised even me. The young man looked appealingly at his father, but the latter shrugged his shoulders and gestured for him to hand it over. Cas watched him closely all the while, and looked only briefly at the ring before handing it back with a smile.

“Thank you”, he said politely. “You may go.”

The young man looked to his father, who nodded his permission. I wondered what all that had been about. 

“The case is almost complete”, Cas said, much to my astonishment, “but I have one more request to make of you, sir. One which you may well find impertinent.”

“Hit me with it”, our host said gruffly.

“I wish to see your will.”

“You what!” the man shouted.

“Please do not overexcite yourself, Mr. Khrushnic”, Cas said patiently. “I have most of what I need to prove who the guilty party is in this matter, and your will, I suspect, is the final link in the chain.”

The man looked angry, but eventually seemed to relent and crossed to a bureau where he extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked a small drawer. Taking out a sheaf of papers, he handed them over to the detective, who carefully read through them before handing them back. 

“If you're thinking that my other son Ivan was involved in this mess, then think again”, the man said firmly. “He is away on business in Hull, and won't be back until the weekend.”

“My thoughts were not actually running along those lines”, Cas said. “I believe I have solved the case, although I am not quite sure you will like the solution. I shall however need you to do something to help bring the case to a conclusion.”

“Of course. What?”

“Upon our departure, inform your staff that you are closing this house up and moving to your estate in the country”, Cas said. “Say you are leaving at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Doctor Winchester and I will be here at eight thirty.”

“You are coming with me?”

Cas chuckled.

“Not exactly”, he said. “But I promise you a resolution within half an hour of our arrival. Good day, sir.”

He stood up, and I hurriedly rose to follow him out of the room.

+~+~+

“If that man is one of the top criminals in the city”, I reasoned as we went home in our cab, “then surely it is not wise to make him wait?”

Cas sighed.

“I fear Mr. Khrushnic is in for an unpleasant surprise tomorrow”, he said ruefully. “”But at least he will have his painting.”

“But he has his painting”, I objected.

“A fake”, Cas said dryly.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“I would draw your attention to three things”, he said. “The footman who showed us in, the small white flakes in the centre left area of the painting, and the wording of Mr. Khrushnic's will.”

Only you read that”, I objected.

“His estate is split between his sons of his blood body, save that if a beneficiary is in jail at the time of his death, then they do not inherit.”

I stared at him.

“So you are saying that Ivan Khrushnic.....”

“Hull does have a railway station and fast trains to London, my dear fellow”, Cas smiled. “Ah, we are home.”

III

I had an essay for my degree that I had to read through one last time before submitting, so I was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of a blazing fire, with the firm hope that Cas' violin would remain in its case. However, we were met in the lobby by our landlady, and my heart sank when she informed us the fire in our room would be out of commission that evening, as the chimney it led to was blocked, and a sweep could not be obtained until the following day. I was used to changing into my pyjamas and dressing-gown if I was done going out for the day, but if our Russian case was to be accompanied by a Siberian room upstairs, I decided to remain fully clothed. I got my essay out and started to work on it.

Cas came upstairs after me a few moments later, and bless the man if he did not sit next to me on the couch, radiating a blissful heat. He had his own book under a blanket, but somehow I found myself snuggling underneath it with him, leaning up against his smaller frame and all but burrowing into his side. When I had finished, I carefully placed the essay to one side and just lay there, enjoying the heat.....

I woke some time later to find I was even warmer, and blinked at my friend in confusion. The fire before us was now blazing merrily away, and I had no idea what time it was, though it must have been past my bedtime.

“What?” I managed.

“I pulled a few strings to get us a sweep this evening”, he explained. “He came whilst you were sleeping, unblocked the chimney from the other room, then the maid came in and laid the fire.”

And the maid had seen me like this, I thought, flushing a bright red. Then again, we were just two friends leaning against each other to conserve heat in a chilly room. Two fully-clothed, quite respectable alphas doing absolutely nothing at all untoward....

“Dean?”

“Uh huh?”

“I think we need to go to bed.”

My obvious reaction was hell, yes, before I realized that he probably meant to our separate beds. I shifted to move away from him, only for him to effortlessly hoist us both to our feet.

“Though clearly you are still not yet warm enough”, he rumbled, and in the name of all that was holy, it was the Sex Voice! “Clearly I need to spend some more time warming you up.”

How he walked me via the door to lock it and then across to his bedroom I did not know, as I was literally draped all over him. And as for removing our clothes – well, clearly he was even more flexible than I had thought, because he achieved the impossible in short order, drawing me down onto the bed and under the blankets. I knew from the few times I had woken with him in the same bed that he had a tendency to cocoon himself completely, but this time he seemed determined to make a mummy of both of us, our arms wrapped around each other as we lay on our sides. I sighed contentedly.

“Are you warm yet?” he asked.

“Not quite”, I muttered sleepily. “A few more minutes. I tried to push myself even closer, and our cocks rubbed against each other. A small part of me protested bitterly at the thought of him leaving me as per usual, and I determined that I would grip him tight for as long as possible.

+~+~+

The following morning I woke to find myself still gripping an angel who did not seem overly inclined to try to leave. I even went and fetched him a coffee, although that was partly for my own safety. An uncaffeinated Cas first thing in the morning was a terrible sight to behold!.

We arrived promptly at the Khrushnic residence just over an hour later - how Cas had managed to set the alarm God only knew - to find the place all a-bustle. Bags were heaped up, and the man himself looked quite exasperated as we were shown in.

“So why am I going to the country, Mr. Novak?” he demanded. 

“You are not.”

“What?” The man blinked at him.

“You are going nowhere”, Cas said calmly. “If you take a seat, I will explain. Is your butler to be trusted?”

The man looked at him confusedly.

“Yes”, he said at last, “but why....”

“Kindly summon him, if you please.”

Still looking bewildered, the man rang the bell, and the butler promptly appeared. 

“I would like to give your man an instruction, if I may”, Cas said.

“Go on”, our host said warily.

Cas whispered something to the elderly man, who looked surprised.

“That item is in the hall, sir, awaiting the arrival of the coach”, he said crisply. 

“Please bring it in here”, Cas said quietly. 

The butler nodded – clearly a good servant if he was doing whatever strange thing a visitor had requested without asking why – and left. Less than a minute later he was back, hefting a medium-sized suitcase with some effort, which Cas took and heaved easily round to behind one of the chairs. 

“The staff are all downstairs having breakfast, as you requested, sir”, the butler intoned.

“As you requested?” Mr Khrushnic demanded, clearly getting annoyed. “What's going on here?”

“I took the liberty of sending a message to your housekeeper to ask if she could serve a late breakfast, so all your staff would be out of the way when I called”, Cas said airily.

“Oh you did, did you?” he asked.

“Yes. Because I shall now tell you about the theft of your painting.”

“Theft and return”, the man corrected.

“No”, Cas said, and I knew he was enjoying what was about to come. “Just theft. The painting hanging in your gallery is an excellent copy. Done by one of the master copiers in the city, I might add, and probably worth quite a fair sum in its own right, but not a patch on the original.”

The man gaped.

“So I have been robbed! It was Gregor all along!”

Cas sighed.

“And it really would have been easier if you had told me everything”, he said, almost plaintively. 

“I did....”

“You did not mention that, on the day of the theft, you received a hoax telegram”, Cas said.

The man's jaw dropped. Cas looked at him.

“I am now in a position to tell you how the crime was accomplished”, he said. He handed a slip of paper to the still stunned man. “Please carry out those instructions to the letter, sir.”

Mr. Khrushnic pulled himself together, and rang one of the bells. Feodor, the footman who had showed us in the day before, arrived promptly. 

“Please fetch Mr. Gregor from upstairs, Feodor”, Mr. Khrushnic said heavily.

The man nodded, and left.

Cas looked pointedly at me, and I belatedly understood. He was thinking that the accused might make a run for it. As surreptitiously as possible, I moved over to the door, just in time for there to be a knock swiftly followed by the entrance of Gregor Khrushnic and the footman. Cas turned to our host.

IV

“I am now in a position to return your property to you, sir”, he said, bowing. “But before I do, I regret that I must cause you pain. You asked me to investigate whether or not your youngest son stole your painting. I regret to inform you that he did.”

Gregor Khrushnic gasped.

“Father, I swear that is not true.”

“I am sorry, but it is”, Cas said, sinking into his chair. He spared a second warning look at me, and I remained on my guard, watching the younger son closely.

“At around two o'clock, Feodor here hands you, Mr. Khrushnic, a telegram. I do not know the contents of that message, but the effect, as desired, was to cause you to leave the house for several hours. That message, as you later discovered, was a fake, but it was essential that you not be here when your son arrived, and that your absence last long enough for him to go away again.”

“Why?” Mr. Khrushnic demanded. Cas ignored him.

“At approximately two thirty, Mr. Gregor Khrushnic leaves his apartment for the ten-minute walk to his father's house”, Cas began. “He thinks that the only person who knows he is coming is the housekeeper, but as we all know, servants gossip. Importantly, Mr. Khrushnic is wearing his favourite long coat.”

“Why is that important?” I asked in my turn. Cas, predictably, ignored me too.

“At approximately twenty minutes to three, Mr. Gregor Khrushnic arrives at the house, and is shown into the waiting-room. He hands his coat to the footman, Feodor here, who takes it and hangs it in the cloakroom – but not before extracting something from it. A set of keys.”

I was almost unprepared for the footman's desperate lunge for the door, but fortunately I was bigger and stronger than him, and Gregor Khrushnic hurried across to assist me. The two of us soon had him pinned down, much to our host's astonishment.

“Feodor?” he gasped. “But.... that's impossible!”

“Your footman wanted that painting, and the coming of Mr. Gregor offered an excellent opportunity to shift suspicion onto a rival", Cas said. “He had a copy of the painting made, I would guess by one of London's best copiers, a Mr. Hebediah Woolsford of the Minories. His copies are excellent, but they have an intrinsic weakness in that his house is close by a chemical factory, and certain colours he uses, particularly cobalt white, react with those chemicals by flaking very slightly. By examining the white areas of the painting, I knew immediately that it was a fake.”

“Then why did you not tell me?” Mr. Khrushnic demanded hotly.

“Because I wished for you to have a good night's sleep”, Cas said. “In light of what I knew about the case, I thought you might well need it.”

What did he mean by that, I wondered.

“Feodor slips out with both the fake painting and the keys he has extracted from Mr. Gregor Khrushnic's coat pocket”, Cas went on. “A fit man, he can make it to his target's house in five minutes. I dare say he was seen, but of course no-one thought to ask if anyone went into young Mr. Khrushnic's room at that time, as all the attention was on this house. Feodor leaves the painting poorly hidden, and races back home. Fortuitously, no-one has yet told Mr. Gregor that his father is unlikely to return for some hours, so Feodor tells him that, and he leaves. Our criminal then quickly goes to the gallery and takes the real painting from the wall, hiding it in his own room. When you return later, Mr. Khrushnic, he arranges for one of the maids to clean the gallery, knowing she will immediately see the bare gap on the wall. You send your men round to your son's apartment, and find the copy. Because you are so relieved, you do not think to check if it is a fake, which, I am sorry to say, it is.”

Mr. Khrushnic sat in stony silence. Feodor whimpered on the floor between myself and Gregor Khrushnic.

“By advising you to make an immediate move to the country, I forestalled any attempt by the criminal to dispose of the painting”, Cas explained. “His only hope was to take it with him” - he reached behind the chair for the suitcase, and I saw the footman's face go even whiter - “so I believe it should be in here.”

He opened the case, and extracted a slim package, which he unwrapped. Sure enough, It was 'The Two Ladies'.

“But you were wrong on one thing”, I pointed out. “You said the theft had been carried out by the youngest son.”

I stopped. Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic was almost as pale as his footman.

“That was the motive”, Cas said quietly. “The will stated that the estate was to be divided equally between all the sons of the blood body, regardless of which side of the blanket they were born on. You, Mr. Khrushnic, were not prepared to recognize your actual youngest son's claim, but you did find him employment and, fatally, gave him a signed document recognizing his status. The wording of the will, which he chanced to read one day, was unfortunately vague, and meant that he could use that to push a claim to the estate.” He turned to the ashen-faced host. “Sorry I am to say it, sir, but had you pursued charges against your son, then I fear you and your other son would both have suffered 'accidents' not long after his incarceration. Mr. Gregor here would have been debarred because of his criminal record, and your servant would inherit all.”

Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic shuddered. 

“What are you going to do?” he managed.

“I am employed by you in merely a private capacity”, Cas said gently. “The way you choose to deal with what has happened is up to you, sir.” He turned to me. “Doctor, I think our presence here is no longer required.”

I nodded, and let got of the crumpled footman. We left Mr. Radulfus Khrushnic and his son – both his sons – in the large, lonely house.

+~+~+

The following day, I was not surprised to read in the Times of the discovery of a unknown body in the Thames, possibly that of a footman.....


	5. Case 7: The Hammer of the Gods (1877)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the aluminium crotch'.

I

At this time in our acquaintanceship, Cas had yet to achieve the fame and recognition which, much as he often scorned them, would later become rightfully his. In analyzing the cases from the year eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, I find them to be nineteen in number, most of which were small and/or inconsequential. However, one case in particular does stand out, not just because of the strangeness of the eventual resolution, but because it was a case that I, albeit inadvertently, brought to Cas' attention.

I knew not whether I preferred London in its summer heat or winter chill moods, but the summer of 'Seventy-Seven was truly far too hot. That July would see the first tennis championships held by the All-England Club in the Surrey town of Wimbledon, not far from London, and the offer of cheap train tickets on the London and South Western Railway sorely tempted me to go, despite my permanently straitened finances. But it was a strange case of murder, the one memorable case from that scorching year, which ensured that I did indeed attend.

Although I knew most of the doctors at the surgery where I worked as acquaintances, I can say my only real friend there was Doctor Peter Greenwood. He was a little less than two years older than me, and I should probably have mentioned before that it was his occasional assisting with lecturing at St. Bartholomew's that introduced me to him, and through him that I obtained my position (such that it was) at our surgery. He was a merry young fellow, so I was surprised when we met as usual after work for coffee one day, and I found him looking vexed. I inquired as to why.

“It's the Aberdour Murder”, he explained. “Did you read about it in the paper?”

I had seen the headline in the paper that day, but I had been late leaving the house and had not had time to read any further. The reasons had involved a certain persistently clingy blue-eyed genius who had decided he could wake me up more efficiently that my alarm clock. He had proven his point. I smiled at the memory.

“Why is that a concern?” I asked, pulling my chair under the table to hide my sudden erection. Fortunately Peter was a beta, otherwise he may well have been able to spot it. “The headline said there had been a murder in Richmond Park. Is it near your house?”

“Fairly near, but it is not that”, he said. “The murder took place in Northam churchyard, two miles away. However, it chanced that I was attending the local squire there when a constable burst in to inform him what had happened. On realizing what I was, he asked me to come and examine the body, which I did. I am sure your detective friend would be interested. It is a very strange case.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Perhaps I could call round and discuss it with the two of you?” he offered. 

“I would be fascinated to hear about it”, I said. “I shall talk to Cas this evening, and find out when he can see you.”

+~+~+

“So when is your doctor friend coming round?”

Cas' distinctive rumble cut into my thoughts, and it took a moment to process just what he had said. 

“Eh?” I asked intelligently. 

He made what was clearly an effort not to roll his eyes.

“Your doctor friend who is going to come round about the murder?” he prompted.

“I thought Thursday...” I began before it hit me. “Wait a minute! I never told you about that!”

He chuckled knowingly, but said nothing.

“How did you know?” I demanded. “Did Peter speak to you in person?”

“No, doctor”, he smiled. “You always meet up with your friend every Tuesday after work for coffee, and since arriving home you have done nothing except repeatedly peruse the paper you purchased this morning. From its state, you have not opened it past the front page, where the only significant story in the Aberdour Murder. I read the same article myself earlier.”

“Oh”, I said, only slightly mollified at the reasons behind his apparent mind-reading. “Your thoughts?”

“The writer should learn how to write accurate articles”, Cas said dryly. “I hope your doctor friend has better information. The article contains so much speculation that it is difficult to establish exactly what did happen. But I dare say someone from your esteemed profession will prove to be a much better witness. If you bring him with you after work tomorrow, I shall be delighted to meet with him.”

+~+~+

Our meeting with Peter had to be delayed a little when, just minutes before the surgery was due to close, he was called out to a rich client in Blackheath. However, it did not seem likely to take long, so we arranged for him to call by Montague Street at seven o'clock. I explained the change of plan to Cas as we ate dinner that evening, and he nodded abstractly.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worried.

He shook his head.

“My brother Balthazar called by today”, he said, looking even more depressed. “Ostensibly to discuss Mother's upcoming birthday, but I am sure he only came round to see how I was doing.”

“Brotherly concern?” I suggested.

“Brotherly nosiness!” he said bitterly, savagely biting off a piece of bread roll. “You said your friend arrives at seven?”

“Yes?”

He looked at the clock. Then at me. I gulped.

+~+~+

Less than five minutes later, I was naked as the day I was born, lying flat on my bed whilst Cas pounded remorselessly into me. I knew in what little remained of my brain that he sometimes got like this, all wound up and tense, and that his family was a prime cause of that. If being a sounding-board (or in this case, a pounding-board) for the blue-eyed genius allowed him to unwind, then it was the very least I could do for my friend.

He changed his angle of attack and caught my prostate full-on, and only added to the torture by reaching round and grabbing my cock, causing me to come violently. I was still recovering when I realized something odd. He was shaking. I quickly turned round – not easy with six foot of hunky goodness on top of me – and looked at him.

Damnation, he was actually crying!

“I'm sorry” he wept. “I just.....”

I gently brushed away a tear, and kissed him full on the lips just once before smiling reassuringly.

“I love it when you do that”, I told him, managing to coax a watery smile from those precious lips of his. “In fact, providing you can avoid doing it when we're expecting guests, I'd be grateful if you could do it more often.”

He huffed a laugh, pulled out of me and slid down, resting his head on my chest. I ruffled his permanently untidy hair and uttered a silent prayer of thanks for God giving me this wonderful man.

II

“I am probably being stupid”, Peter began after we had sat down following tea (myself somewhat gingerly), “but something about the whole case just feels wrong. The evidence, such as it is, all points one way, yet I feel as if it is all phoney. Like one of those horrible dramas where you're being pushed too hard to consider only one guilty party.”

“For someone in your profession, playing the right hunch is important”, Cas said. Of course he looked like he had just walked out of a newspaper advertisement, not been pounding his room-mate into the mattress and oblivion just half an hour before. Peter, mercifully oblivious to what had happened before his advent, sipped his tea and began his tale.

“This happened in the village of Northam, close by Richmond Park”, he said. “It is a very well-to-do area, almost completely self-contained. The murdered man was a retired colonel, Robert Aberdour by name, and in the short time I have lived in the area, everyone I met felt it imperative that I should understand just how hated he really was.”

“Why?” I asked, curiously. 

“Retired army are normally welcome in any area”, Peter explained, “but Colonel Aberdour rubbed just about everyone up the wrong way. Once he got himself appointed as a local magistrate, he cracked down hard on all and any transgressions, and made even those of his own class afraid of his bad temper. He walked with a stick, and would often use it to lash out at those who displeased him. Which, from all accounts, was practically everybody.”

“Not the greatest loss, then”, I muttered.

“Indeed”, my friend said. “Anyway, to the day of the murder. Colonel Aberdour was coming to see the squire, my patient, for an appointment at five o'clock. I did not know this until, at about a quarter past the hour, my patient observed that the colonel was rarely ever late....”

“Why were you still treating the patient when he was expecting someone?” Cas cut in abruptly.

“I had called in to check some wound dressings, but I found they were well on the way to becoming infected”, my friend explained. “I had to have them boil some water and tear up some sheets to make new ones, whilst I thoroughly cleansed the wound. The whole process took most of an hour, rather than the half-hour I had allowed for. One can never be too careful in such cases.”

“I see”, Cas said, pushing his fingers together. “Proceed, if you will.”

“It must have been only a minute or so after five that Constable Matthews was making his way through the churchyard on his rounds, and found the colonel's dead body”, Peter said. “His face had been hideously smashed in on one side, and a large hammer lay next to it. The constable checked the body, then hurried back to the station to inform his colleague, Constable Winkle.”

“Straight back to the station?” Cas asked. “How far is that?”

Peter thought about that for a moment.

“Not much more than half a mile, I should say”, he said. “Is that important?”

“It may be”, Cas said. “What time did he reach the squire's house, pray?”

“About twenty past”, my friend said. “He left Winkle to guard the body - a crowd had already begun to assemble, Lord alone knows how – and could not believe his luck in finding me, as I am actually the nearest doctor to where it all happened. Obviously I returned to examine the body at once; the squire wanted to come with me, but I warned him that if a infection got in just because he left the house too soon, he might even lose the leg – a little dramatic, and the real reason was that I just did not want him making a fuss. He duly stayed behind, and we reached the churchyard at exactly five thirty; the church clock struck the half-hour as we reached the body. I examined it, and placed the time of death at between four-thirty and five o'clock, probably closer to the former.”

“Hmm”, Cas said. “You said that the object next to the body was a 'large hammer'. Larger than a standard one, I presume?”

“Yes, that was what concerned me about the case”, Peter said. “Constable Winkle went a strange colour when his colleague pointed it out to me, and I asked why. He said he recognized it; it came from the local smithy, and was marked with the smith's name. And the smith there was one of the many people who hated the colonel.”

“Is he one of the three people mentioned in the article?” I asked.

“That bloody article!” Peter swore. “Once those people have been identified, they may never get their good names back. Yes, Hosea Atherley is the village blacksmith. A strapping young man, which is unfortunate, as the force used to strike the fatal blow must have been considerable. But that description also applies to Constable Matthews, who is very heavily-built. Winkle, you could probably blow over with a strong gust of wind; I do not know how he ever became a policeman! I also know that Aberdour had taken a dislike to Matthews when the constable tried to defend someone in front of him as a magistrate, and had been trying to get him removed from his post.”

Cas looked thoughtful for a moment.

“There is something you have not told us, doctor”, he said at last.

My friend sighed.

“Constable Matthews brought Atherley into the station whilst I was there”, he said, sounding almost reluctant. “I could not help noticing that there was a tiny blood spatter on his sleeve. When I mentioned it, he said he had cut himself shaving that morning.”

Cas nodded. “And the third person?” he inquired.

“Probably the only person who can be cleared”, he said. “The Reverend Ian Bulliver, the vicar at St. Stephen's, where the murder took place. He was in the church at the time....”

“Then surely he is a suspect?” I interrupted. Peter smiled knowingly at me.

“The man is undersized even for an omega, and walks with a limp”, he explained. “I doubt that he could blow the skin off a rice-pudding! He could certainly never have exerted the sort of power necessary for the mortal blow. Although he certainly had motive; the colonel struck out at him to give him that limp only the previous week, apparently because he did not like the weekly sermon! But he is in the clear; he was checking out the bells with the verger, and was in the belfry untangling ropes when the deed was done.”

“The verger?” Cas asked.

“A replacement for the normal man, who is on holiday”, Peter said. “Probably one of the few people not to have earned the Colonel's enmity, though I am sure it would have come with time. He left the church at ten to five, but unluckily went out via the back door, as his house lies on that side of the churchyard.”

“It sounds a most intriguing case”, Cas said. “Thank you for coming. I think a day or so spent by the Thames would do us both the world of good, do you not, doctor?”

He looked at me inquiringly. I was a little annoyed that he had not asked me to check my schedule first, but the prospect of another case was, I would have to admit, exciting, so I nodded.

“Good!” Cas exclaimed. “We shall leave tomorrow!”

III

One of the many puzzling things about Cas was the way he could, without any apparent effort, turn on a charm that was frankly irresistible (although to be fair, he only had to give me a certain look and I would be prepared to lie back and take whatever he gave me!). The following day we took a cab to Waterloo Station, then a London & South Western Railway train down to Richmond, before another cab for the short ride to Northam. We reported to the local police station, where we were lucky enough to find Constable Obadiah Winkle. Despite the fact that Sergeant Henriksen had kindly provided up with a letter of introduction, I fully expected the resident police officer to be unfriendly, but Cas had him charmed in no time.

“My dear wife read the article to me at breakfast yesterday morning”, he said, pouring out some questionable substance that may or may not have been tea. I eyed the plant in the corner, and wondered if pouring that liquid into the pot would kill it. “It is fairly accurate as far as it goes, although I was surprised that it left off possibly the most likely suspect.”

“And who might that be?” Cas asked, accepting a mug.

“A Mr. Theophilius Berringe”, the constable said. “He is a Nonconformist preacher who the late colonel made strenuous efforts to have removed from the area, though to little avail.”

“That must have vexed him”, I observed.

“It did”, the constable said. “Berringe is staying at the White Hart, and because the colonel put the landlady Mrs. Benson's husband away for a minor poaching offence, she let him stay there for free. She is a formidable lady – it is fortunate she was away visiting her sister in Croydon on the day of the murder, or she herself would have certainly been a suspect – and she even allowed Mr. Berringe to preach there, though not of course during opening hours. The colonel did not take that at all well.”

“I must thank you for discussing the case with us in this way”, Cas said politely. “I hardly like to impinge on your hospitality any further, but.... might my friend the doctor be allowed to examine the body of the deceased? Naturally in the presence of your good self, of course, and we would immediately share any findings with you.”

“I don't see why not”, the constable said. “The mortuary are collecting him tomorrow; I sent details of the death to his nephew, the only son of his late sister, a Mrs. Sharpe. A Lieutenant Mark Oxford, in the Lincolnshire Regiment. Bledlow – the late colonel's manservant - said he was staying at a hotel in Southampton, so I wired there.”

“Was the colonel a rich man?” I wondered, as we followed the policeman to the back room. He reached the door before answering.

“Not really, although he was not poor either”, the constable said. “Yes, that was the first thing I looked into. I spoke to his manservant, Bledlow. The colonel owned his house – a small one – and had savings enough to be comfortable. Oh, Mrs. Sharpe wired me back to say that the lieutenant is serving in India at the moment, and will not be back for another six months, although I expect the army will release him early given the circumstances. She asked that Bledlow take care of the place in the meantime, which was good of her, as he will be able to use the time to find another position.”

“What about Bledlow?” I asked.

“He was visiting a friend in Kingston on his half-day off”, the constable said. “They went to the library, and the librarian remembers them because they asked for some rare book or other. And he does not gain at all from his employer's death; indeed, he loses his employment, and the will left him precisely nothing. Although Mrs. Sharpe did say she would be continuing to pay him his former wage to watch over the house for her son, so at least he does have that.”

He opened the door, and we walked in to find the body covered by a white sheet. I noticed how pale the constable had gone. 

“Perhaps you could hold the door open for us”, I suggested politely. “To let some air in.”

He nodded gratefully (I noted that he stood behind the door to hold it open, well out of sight), and I lifted the sheet. Colonel Aberdour had been an alpha, about seventy when he died and in fairly good health. Cas pottered around next to me, then stood back, seemingly lost in thought. When I had finished, I replaced the sheet, and we accompanied a grateful constable away from the room.

“Any observations, other than what I know already?” he asked hopefully.

I shook my head, and looked at my detective friend, who was deep in thought.

“Cas?” I prompted.

“This is a very strange case”, he said slowly. “May I see the hammer that was found next to the body, constable?”

“The murder weapon, sir?”

“No.”

IV

We both looked at him in shock.

“No?” I asked at last.

“That cannot have been the murder weapon”, he said flatly. “You both saw the expression on the man's face.”

“But there was no expression, sir”, the constable pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“I don't follow....”

“Constable, the angle of the wound suggests that whatever struck his skull did so at a virtual right-angle to the way he must have been walking”, Cas said. “To create that much damage – almost the entire right-hand side of the skull is obliterated – would require either a massive blow with a long weapon, or repeated blows with a short weapon, such as the hammer. Yet from what remains of his face, there is no shock, and indeed no emotion at all. Therefore a single blow is implied, which rules out the hammer.”

The constable gaped.

“So what sort of weapon are we looking for, sir?” I asked. 

“Dies Irae”, the detective muttered.

“What?” I asked.

Cas chuckled.

“The wrath of God”, he said. “Something Nonconformist priests like Mr. Berringe are always threatening to call down on the lies of Colonel Aberdour. May I ask, constable, what is the church path where the body is found made of?”

The constable blinked at the question.

“Loose stone chippings, sir”, he said.

“And there is no grass nearby?”

“Not where the body was found, sir. That part of the churchyard is all stone.”

Cas looked meaningfully at him.

“What I am driving at”, he said gently, “is that you have just precluded the possibility of anyone sneaking up on him from behind. So since the blow was struck from the side.....”

“He must have known his murderer!” I blurted out.

Cas looked knowingly at me.

“I have an idea, constable”, he said. “Doctor Winchester and I need to see someone in the village. If what I suspect is the case, then I fully expect the killer of Colonel Aberdour to be in your cells by this evening. Though I regret to say, you will find it very difficult to get a murder conviction against him.”

The constable's eyes lit up, and I could almost see the word 'promotion' flashing in them. We both stood up, bowed and left.

+~+~+

“This is a very strange case”, I observed, as we sat outside the White Hart an hour or so later. “I could almost believe that Colonel Aberdour was indeed struck down by the wrath of God, as it seems impossible than any earthly agent could have done it.”

“Few things are impossible”, Cas observed. “As I said before, once one has eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Well, I do not see....” I began, only to be interrupted when a muscular blond young alpha sat down unannounced next to me.

“Hosea Atherley”, he said curtly. “Bess tells me you've been asking questions about Aberdour's death?”

“It would do you well to take a more polite attitude, young man”, Cas said reprovingly. I was surprised at his tone, bearing in mind this was one of the suspects in the case.

“And why would you think that, my fine fellow?” Atherley sneered.

“Because as long as the murderer is at large, you will remain under suspicion”, Cas said quietly. “And for someone in business, that could spell disaster.”

Atherley seemed to back down at that, but still looked at Cas suspiciously.

“Where did you lose the hammer?” Cas asked.

The smith looked surprised, but thought before answering. 

“I had it two days ago when I put a picture up for Mr. Berringe”, he said slowly. “The only other jobs I've done since then were a job at the local railway station, the pipes at the police station, and some repairs to the tower railings at the church. It could have gone at any of those places, and I wouldn't have missed it. You think someone is trying to frame me?”

“Is there anyone in the village who might dislike you enough to do that?” Cas asked.

“Only Matthews!” Atherley chuckled. “I am seeing his sister Ivy, and he does not approve!”

I too chuckled. Cas nodded understandingly.

“Hopefully the killer will be known by this evening”, he said. “Indeed, we were expecting one of the other people in the case.... ah, here he comes now.”

+~+~+

I turned, and was surprised to see the Reverend Bulliver, limping towards us on a wooden crotch. To my surprise the man was an omega, although I knew the Church was more accepting than most in modern society. Atherley nodded to us, and left before he could reach us.

“Sit down, Reverend”, Cas said gently. “Thank you for coming.”

“Your letter said it was urgent”, the vicar said. “What, pray was so important as to make me miss choir practice?”

Cas looked at me almost apologetically, and I suddenly had a very bad feeling about what was about to happen

V

“What did you do with it?” Cas asked quietly. There was no-one sat near us, but people were passing nearby on their way into the tavern.

“With what, sir?” the reverend said, though I noticed he was sweating. 

“With the aluminium crotch.”

I thought the reverend would fall off his chair at that, and caught him as he swayed violently. To my surprise, Cas reached a comforting hand across the table.

“It was not murder”, he said quietly. “There was no pre-meditation. It was, literally, a thousand-to-one chance. You called down the wrath of God on your enemy, and your employer, probably to your surprise and horror, duly obliged.”

The man shook, sobbing silently.

“We should take this somewhere else”, I said firmly, gesturing to a solitary park bench on the green across the road. Cas nodded his assent, and I helped the cleric up, the two of us supporting him over to the bench where he sank down. I sat next to him, whilst Cas stood next to us.

“It was ironic, was it not?” Cas said gently. “The colonel gave you that injury, and he was killed because of it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “There was no way someone as small and weak as....”

“Do not deny your friend”, the reverend said quietly. “He is right. I killed him.”

“But how?” I demanded.

“At a little after four forty-five”, Cas said, “the reverend here had gone up to disentangle the bell-ropes in the belfry. Whilst there, he took the chance to look around for Mr. Hosea Atherley's hammer, which the smith had mentioned he may have left there. Not finding it, he went up onto the tower, from which I would wager the view is magnificent.”

I shuddered at the mere mention of heights.

“It was pure chance that led Mr Bulliver to look down, and see the man who had hurt him”, Cas went on. “The man whose attitude and approach to life were upsetting many in his congregation. In a fit of rage, he threw at him the only weapon he had to hand, his aluminium crotch. Having seen the church tower, I calculated that an object that was dropped from the roof would, by the time it reached someone standing on the ground, be travelling at a speed of approximately twenty yards per second at least, faster still if it was actually thrown down in anger. The impact on the skull would have been that of a local train at speed. The colonel never knew what hit him.”

“Dies Irae”, Mr. Bulliver muttered.

“Indeed”, Cas said. “The wrath of God. For all the suffering the man caused, especially to you, that missile flew straight and true to its destination. When you came down to see what you had done, you were of course horrified. Then you heard someone approaching, grabbed the crotch and hurried back inside the church to hide.”

“But what about the hammer?” I asked.

“Ah, that was Constable Matthews”, Cas explained. “He lied when he said he returned straight to the station; he took far too long for so short a journey, which in the circumstances he would have been hurrying over. His first port of call would obviously have been the nearby church, hoping to find the reverend who, wisely, had let the verger out the back door before retrieving his crotch, then his inside his office. Matthews did however chance to find Mr. Atherley's lost hammer. I am afraid the temptation to implicate a person he disliked in a major crime proved too much. Let us hope it does not blight his whole career as a result.”

“And me, sir?” the reverend said quietly. 

Cas turned to him.

“Mr. Atherley and Mr. Berringe are both decent human beings”, he said gravely, “and they do not deserve to be tarnished by association with this crime for the rest of their lives. You will accompany us to Constable Winkle, and confess. In the circumstances, I think a jury may be inclined towards leniency.”

We accompanied the vicar to the police station, where a stunned Constable Winkle took his confession, then locked him in the cell. I presumed we would then return to London, but Cas surprised me by saying he had one more person to see in the area, and would meet me in the tavern in two hours' time. A little disgruntled, I made my way there and waited for him. Fortunately he came earlier than expected, and we returned in silence to the capital.

+~+~+

A week later, I was sitting at our breakfast table, feeling more than a little annoyed. My hopes of attending the championship final at Wimbledon had been scuppered by an unseasonable outbreak of flu, which had kept me working flat out at the surgery. Cas' unusual morning cheerfulness did not make me feel any better, either.

“I see they have decided to pursue manslaughter, with a recommendation for clemency, against our clerical friend”, he observed from behind his paper.

I was relieved that at least the reverend would not have to face the gallows for his crime. I grunted in assent, but said nothing.

“You had better get ready”, Cas said.

I looked up in surprise. I still had half an hour before I had to leave for work. He smiled at me, and slid an envelope across the table to me. I opened it, and gasped in shock.

“The final was delayed by rain”, he explained, ”but the tickets are still valid. Your friend Doctor Greenwood has arranged cover for you for today, and a cab is coming to take you to Waterloo in ten minutes.”

“You bought me tickets to the Final!” I managed.

“A thank-you for accompanying me last week”, he said almost dismissively. “I know how much you wanted to go.”

I was deeply touched by the gesture, but he clearly felt uncomfortable with anything emotional, so I muttered my thanks and hurried on with my breakfast. But I did discern the slightest of smiles on the normally taciturn features.

He actually cared!

+~+~+

Yes, I did thank him properly when I got back that evening. Use your imagination!

+~+~+

Our next case would start in the cold wastes of the Balkans, and end with a man with a club foot....


	6. Case 8: Jus In Bello (1878)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jus in bello (Italian) – Justice in war, limitations and/or restrictions on what is acceptable conduct in wartime.

I

The winter of eighteen hundred and seventy-eight was a tense time to be in London. Hundreds of miles away, the British fleet was anchored off Constantinople, daring the Russian Bear to enter the great city. It had long been Moscow's intention to secure a warm-water port, but never before had the Imperial armies reached so far south. War between the two Great Powers looked more likely every day that passed.

These great events bore, at first appearance, no relation to a brutal suburban murder in the greatest city in the world. But those appearances were deceptive, and what began in the cold wastes of the Caucasus Mountains had a minor outpouring in a small London thoroughfare not far from our lodgings in Montague Street, and in a killing that was not what it first appeared.

+~+~+

The case began one cold March morning, when I stumbled into breakfast feeling more tired than usual. The day before, news had reached London of the Treaty of San Stefano, which had given Russia everything she could have wanted out of her recent war with the Ottoman Empire, allowing her ships unrestricted access to both the Mediterranean and Great Britain's shipping lanes therein. The public reaction in the English capital had been fierce and (regrettably) loud, as a result of which I had got little sleep. My mood was not helped by seeing Cas up and alert when I stumbled into our main room, which in itself was unusual if not unknown. Mercifully, there was coffee left, and he even poured me a cup before I reached the table.

He poured me a coffee. My eyes widened in horror. Oh my God, what on earth had gone wrong?

“Sergeant Henriksen is coming round today”, Cas said conversationally. “He has a case for me.”

“He has sent you details already?” I asked, gratefully inhaling the caffeine.

“No, but the headline in the Times suggests why he may require my assistance”, Cas said. He looked at me almost sympathetically. “Would you like to read it, or would you prefer me to summarize it for you?”

I was grateful for the consideration, as my senses were still barely functional. “A summary, please”, I said. 

He nodded.

“Yesterday afternoon, a constable from Sergeant Henriksen's station was patrolling Darrowby Street, not far from here, when he heard a loud scream from Number Twenty-Three. He immediately went and knocked at the door, and when no-one answered, forced his way in. In the lounge he found the dead body of the house owner, a Miss Frances Hanover, a lady who had only just moved into the area. She had been viciously stabbed in the neck. Furthermore, there was a blood-stained knife lying nearby, which was subsequently identified as belonging to Miss Hanover's neighbour, Mr. Nicolo Ricoletti who, it emerged, had been paying court to her of late. Obviously he has since been arrested.”

“Does the article say anything about the murderer?” I asked.

“It says that Mr. Ricoletti, thirty-one and a beta, only moved to the area himself last year, from a small town in Durres, on the Adriatic Coast”, Cas said. “He has a club foot, so does not get about much, and lives with his former wife Gina.”

I looked up in surprise, then winced as my body forcibly reminded me that sudden movements were inadvisable. 

“Surely he is a Catholic, if he is from Italy?” I wondered. “How did he obtain a divorce?”

“The paper reported that he is actually of a small sect which, whilst it recognizes Papal authority in most respects, does allow divorce”, Cas explained. “Apparently the couple have to remain together for a year and a day before final sanction is granted, and the recent problems in the Ottoman Empire must have prompted a rapid removal to the safety of an English thoroughfare.”

“Not that safe”, I muttered, “considering their neighbour was murdered and he is the chief suspect!”

“It all sounds very straightforward”, I said, a little plaintively. 

“It might be”, Cas admitted, “had not Miss Hanover been one of the principal Austro-Hungarian spies in this country!”

I gaped.

“Had you not better be getting ready for your day's work?” Cas asked teasingly.

“You can't seriously let me go to work with just that!” I protested.

Cas smiled.

“The sergeant is not coming round until five o'clock”, he promised. “I shall not start the case without my trusty sidekick!”

I blushed a little. After our last adventure, I had challenged my friend as to why he wanted my presence on his cases, and he had observed that 'even the sharpest knife needs a good whetstone, my friend.' That someone as obviously intelligent as Cas valued my humble opinion was, I thought, strangely warming.

That he had then taken me to the bedroom and impaled me forcibly onto the mattress had just driven the point home. Several times over.

+~+~+

I have to say that what Cas did that afternoon was quite shameful. Using me in such a way was beneath him, and..... my God, if he ever wanted to do it again, I would be so grateful!

I was pathetic, I knew, but I did not care!

II

I arrived home from the surgery a few minutes before four o'clock, thanks to Peter Greenwood agreeing to cover for me in return for a future favour. I opened the door to my apartment, and at first thought that it was empty. Then Cas popped his head up from the couch, upon which he had presumably been lying.

“Good evening, doctor”, he said, and my pulse started racing. That was the Sex Voice, yet Sergeant Henriksen was due in barely an hour. Surely he could not mean.....

He rose from the couch in a lazy move, and my eyes dropped as if pulled by a magnet. He was naked as the day he was born, and sporting an erection that was nearly a foot long. I definitely whimpered. I knew what was coming next, but I was powerless to stop it.

“I've been hard at work all day”, he growled, “and now I'm hard and ready. Doctor, I suggest you remove any clothing you do not wish me to tear from your gorgeous body within the next sixty seconds, or else!”

Somehow I managed to get most of my clothes off, with the exception of my socks and underwear, before he had suddenly crossed the room without my noticing and was on me. My underwear was ripped from me, and I was thrust back onto the door, which I hit with a clatter. He was all over me, desperate to touch and kiss every part of me – except, being the bastard he was, the one part I actually wanted him to attend to. My back protested at being jarred by the doorknob, and I was quite proud of myself that I managed to get some words out.

“The couch!” I gasped. “Or the bed....”

Somehow he managed to manoeuvre me off the wall and onto my usual fireside chair, forcing my legs up into the air as he sought my entrance. Then I felt a finger pushing in, and like some sort of missile, it went straight for my prostate. I would have come there and then, but his other hand was not only massaging the base of my cock, it was also preventing me from coming. I let out a whine of protest.

“Do I have to gag you again?” he growled. 

I shut up at once. He was all animal like this, and it terrified me, even if I secretly loved it. He got a second finger in and began to scissor me open, soon following it with a third and a fourth until I was a pile of quivering jelly. I bit back a second moan, and was just congratulating myself when his fingers were swiftly replaced by something much bigger. 

“Let me come!” I grunted, trying to keep my voice down.

The bastard was now using his newly-freed hand to rub my cock into an even higher state of excitement, whilst holding the base to prevent me from reaching the goal I so badly needed. And then he changed the angle of his attack, and his cock hit my prostate full-on just as he released me.

I exploded. My come had nowhere to go, as he had been using his muscular body to pin me down, and it formed a sticky layer between us. Then he suddenly pulled out, and before I could object, was adding his own come to the mixture, letting out a pained sigh as he too achieved orgasm.

We lay there for some time, and just as I was beginning to wonder if that was some plan to actually stick us together permanently, he pulled off and grabbed a wet cloth from a dish on the nearby table, wiping us both down. Then he stood up, looking down at me almost fondly.

“Henriksen will be here shortly”, he said plainly, as if he had not just fucked me six ways from Thursday. “You had better get ready.”

He sauntered off to his room, leaving me speechless.

+~+~+

I was just emerging (limping) from my room when our visitor arrived. It was definitely not Sergeant Henriksen. And judging from the rather odd look on my friend's face, he knew full well who it actually was.

“Balthazar!” he growled. “What do you want?”

I might say at this point that I do not normally judge from first appearances, but I took an instant dislike to the man who, I remembered from the name, was one of Cas' older kappa brothers. Mr. Balthazar Novak was nothing like his brother in appearance; slightly taller, blond-haired and sporting a stylized short beard, he was the archetypal lounge lizard, with the sort of face that made any right-thinking man want to punch him. Hard. It did not help that he immediately took my chair.

“That is Dean's place”, Cas said frostily. “You will either stand, or take the fireside chair.”

There was clearly an air of tension between the two brothers. Balthazar Novak looked as if he might stay put for a moment, but eventually sighed, got up and made his way to the fireside chair, into which he all but fell. I took my place by the table (I pointedly ignored the extra cushion that some blue-eyed bastard had placed on the seat for some reason!) and watched my friend cautiously.

Our visitor broke the uneasy silence.

“You have not been around much, Cassie....”

“Do not call me that!” Cas ground out. “I presume you are here over the Darrowby Street Affair?”

Our unwelcome guest sighed.

“And, of course, to see my favourite little brother”, he said. He reached across presumably in an attempt to make contact with his brother, but Cas shot him such a look that he pulled his hand back as if burnt.

“All right”, our guest said. “Dizzy is not pleased, by the way. Another international incident is all we need right now.”

I was shocked to realize he was actually referring to our esteemed prime minister. Cas noticed my expression.

“Despite his playboy exterior”, he said heavily, “my brother 'functions' – if that is the right word – as a valued government operative.”

His brother stood and bowed deeply to us both.

“Proof, if needed, that appearances are often deceptive!” Cas added.

“Hey!” his brother snapped.

Cas turned to him.

“Tell us about the murder of Miss Hanover”, he said quietly.

Balthazar Novak looked pointedly at me.

“Can he be trusted?” he asked his brother, gesturing to me. 

I was frankly offended, but Cas spoke before I could.

“More than certain family members I might name”, he said acidly. His brother glared at him, and I resisted the urge to crow. It took some effort on my part.

“All right”, our guest said, sprawling himself back across his chair. “As I'm sure you know – because Cassie here knows everything - Frances Hanover was one of the most accomplished Austro-Hungarian spies in this country.”

“Then why did you not arrest her?” I wondered.

Balthazar Novak looked at me as if I was frankly an idiot. At least until his brother threw a biscuit at him.

“Cassie!”

“You cannot expect my friend to understand the intricacies of government, any more than you could understand the intricacies of medicine!” he snapped, before turning back to me. “What my uninformative brother means is that, knowing Miss Hanover was a spy, the British government were able to make sure that the information she supplied to her masters in Vienna was exactly what our country wanted them to believe. And nothing more.”

“Oh”, I said. “I see now.”

“The newspaper article is, for once, surprisingly accurate”, Balthazar Novak observed. “However, certain key facts have been omitted.”

“Which are?” Cas prompted.

“We are unclear as to just how deep the relationship between Mr. Ricoletti and Miss Hanover had become”, he said, clearly still annoyed at my presence if the looks I was getting were any judge. “His ex-wife disapproved of it, but suspected it had gone further than he admitted, to to either her or us. And she, in turn, is one of the problems of this case.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“She is dating a young man called Gianluca diMoro. He is a young attaché at the Italian Embassy, an alpha buck if ever there was one, which brings in our spaghetti-eating friends. And that, my dear Cassie, is something we do not need at the moment.”

“Why?” I asked, curiously.

Cas turned to me.

“In the pan-European war which, my brother quite correctly judges, will happen sooner or later, the position of Italy will be important”, he explained. “And not just because she could threaten our shipping lanes in the Mediterranean. At the moment, the governments in Berlin and Vienna are doing everything in their power to ensure that Rome sides with them in the coming conflict. Mishandling an incident such as this could make that task easier.”

“I see”, I said. “But what if Mr. Ricoletti is indeed guilty?”

“Like his ex-wife, he is registered as a British citizen, but with dual nationality”, Balthazar Novak said. “In the event we can obtain sufficient proof, that evidence would be handed over along with him to the Italian government, to do with as they see fit. Her Majesty's Government would not like it, but provided he never returned to this country, they would accept such a deal.”

“If it can be proven”, Cas said. “I believe I shall need to stir myself and visit the crime scene.”

His brother smiled, then sniffed the air. We had had the windows open for a good half-hour, but even a beta might have been able to guess what had happened here quite recently. A frown creased the tall man's features.

“Cassie, you old dog!” he grinned. “Didn't think you had it in you!”

“Actually, Winchester is the one who has just 'had it in him'”, my (very soon to be ex-)friend replied smoothly. His brother's jaw dropped.

“But...... he's an alpha!” he objected.

“See, perhaps you do understand medicine after all!” Cas grinned. 

“Mother and Father will not approve!” our visitor said loftily.

“Mother already knows most of what there is to know”, Cas said. “And if someone misinforms them in any way, I shall know precisely who talked. It will be a certain person responsible for at least four childhood incidents, one of which led to someone needing hospital treatment, and each of which he evaded responsibility for by lying.”

“You would not tell them about all that!” our visitor scoffed.

Cas raised an eyebrow at him

“Try me!” he grinned.

Thus began my acquaintanceship with Mr. Balthazar Novak. It is fair to say that it went downhill from there.

III

The following day was, fortunately, a Saturday, so I was able to accompany Cas to Darrowby Street, which lay only a short cab ride from our rooms. It was a row of terraced houses, not the best area socially, but not the worst either. All the houses were well-kept, and of course there was a knot of people gathered outside Number Twenty-Three, with a policeman on duty to keep them in order. Cas presented our credentials, and we were admitted to the house to find Balthazar Novak waiting for us, along with a worried-looking constable.

“Police Constable Penry-Jones”, Balthazar explained. “He found the body.”

Cas turned to him.

“You examined the body when you found it, of course?” he asked.

The constable blushed. I wondered why, but not for long.

“I did, sir”, he muttered, looking anywhere but at us. “She was wearing one of those long thin dressing-gown things, and..... her undergarments, sir.”

“A kimono”, I supplied. “An odd thing to wear around the house, especially at that time of day.”

“She had a dress-fitting scheduled for her own house earlier that day”, Balthazar Novak said. “It was warm, so perhaps she decided to remain in it. You know these foreigners.”

Cas gestured to a door in the wall by the fireplace.

“Does that lead into the Ricoletti's house?” he asked.

“Yes, sir”, the constable said, “but it's locked. Besides, they keep a heavy dresser against the door on their side. Constable Wales noticed that when he interviewed the ex-wife this morning.”

“It is highly regrettable that Mrs. Ricoletti had no motive”, Balthazar Novak said heavily. “The divorce cannot be finalized if her husband is in jail.”

“What if he is hung?” Cas asked. His brother shook his head.

“She has to return to Durres to get her church elders to re-sign their petition, a year and a day after it was lodged”, he explained. “If he does not, even through death, the marriage stands for five years from the second date.”

“That is cruel!” I observed. 

“The papers report was that the fatal wound was in the neck?” Cas asked.

“That's right, sir”, the policeman said. “And it was definitely Mr. Ricoletti's knife. We found his fingerprints on it, and his ex-wife confirmed it when we challenged her on it. Reluctantly, sir.”

“Thank you, constable”, Cas said. “If you could please join your colleague outside for a moment, my brother and I have things to discuss.”

Constable Penry-Jones nodded, and left us in peace. Balthazar Novak looked at his brother expectantly. 

“I need to see the body, and I need to visit Mr. Ricoletti's house”, Cas said crisply. “Is his ex-wife at home?”

“Yes, and expecting us”, Balthazar Novak said.

“Then let us not keep a lady waiting.”

+~+~+

Having said how much I try to avoid judging on first appearances, I have to say that I took an instant dislike to Gina Ricoletti. I felt instinctively that I would not want her wielding a sharp instrument anywhere in my vicinity. She was young, beautiful and charming, but there was something cold and calculating about her, even when she spoke of her ex-husband.

“Poor, poor Nico”, she said sadly. “I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but That Woman led him on.”

I could hear the capitals in that sentence.

“How long had your ex-husband been seeing Miss Hanover?” Cas asked.

“He had been paying court to her ever since she moved in, over a month ago”, she sniffed. “As far as I know, they did not go out together. I think she enjoyed leading him on, and him worshipping her on her pedestal. She had more than enough other male visitors, the Jezebel!”

Jealousy, I thought wryly.

“What do you do for a living, Mrs. Ricoletti?” Cas asked.

She seemed surprised at the question.

“I work as a dressmaker”, she said. “I supply dresses to Debenham and Freebody's, in Wigmore Street, but I also do my own work. I was round there yesterday afternoon, fitting Miss Hanover for a new blue dress she was purchasing. It must have been less than an hour before.....”

She tailed off, and I could not help thinking her whole performance was somewhat theatrical. Then again, her ex-husband could be facing the gallows, ruining her own prospects in the process. Cas got up and walked over to the dresser.

“Is that a Meissen?” he asked, looking closely at a hideous vase. His questions were strange today, I thought.

“Good Lord, no!” she smiled. “Just an old family piece from home.”

Cas studied the vase intently, as if it might tell him something.

“And Mr. Ricoletti works as a stonemason?” he asked, not looking round.

“Yes. He told you that?”

“I have never met him”, Cas smiled. “I just knew. We shall not take up any of your valuable time, Madam. Good day.”

He bowed, and led us out. Once outside, his brother turned to him.

“All right, Cassie, what do you know?”

Cas led us out into the street and away from the still considerable crowd before speaking.

“I would like Winchester to examine the corpse”, he said.

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

He smiled.

“If I told you that, you would find it anyway!” he said. “Let us go to the station, and see what you can find!”

IV

“I still find it odd that she was still wearing the kimono an hour after she tried on the new dress”, I observed, as our cab took us to the police station. “The day of the murder was not that warm. Was there even a dress?”

“There was”, Balthazar said shortly. “We checked; Mrs. Ricoletti had started work on adjusting it for her. And a neighbour reported that he saw Mrs. Ricoletti coming out of Number Twenty-Three and going back into her own house.”

“Do not snap at the good doctor”, Cas said reprovingly. “His point is a valid one.”

His brother looked at him, then gasped.

“Do you mean she and Ricoletti were.... and then he..... ugh!”

“Pot, kettle, black”, Cas muttered.

His brother glared at him. Fortunately the cab chose that minute to reach the station, and I prepared for my examination of the late Miss Frances Hanover.

+~+~+

Examining the body of someone who had so many years ahead of them is always an unpleasant task, even if the woman had been an enemy of this country. But Cas was, of course, right. I did find something. I emerged to find the brothers waiting for me.

“Well?” Balthazar Cas said expectantly.

“She was indeed stabbed”, I said. “Eight times. That would have been enough to kill her.”

“We knew that!” Balthazar Novak ground out.

“Except”, I said, “that was not what killed her.”

Balthazar Novak gulped, and I noticed my detective friend give me a look of triumphant vindication.

“She was strangled, with something about half an inch in diameter”, I said. “Not a rope or anything cutting. I am sure that the stab wound occurred shortly after the strangulation; I cannot estimate how soon. The stabbing was done presumably to hide her real means of death.”

“But why would our Italian friend strangle her, then stab her?” Balthazar Novak asked. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense”, Cas said. “Well done, doctor. Balthazar, I'm sure one of your operatives could retrieve an item from Darrowby Street for me if I asked?”

“Yes?” his brother said cautiously. “What is it?”

Cas wrote down something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. His brother read it, and looked at him curiously.

“Why...?” he began.

“Bring that to our apartments in two hours' time, and I shall tell you how it was done!” he smiled.

“Cassie....”

“Call me that again, and I'll make you wait until tomorrow!”

+~+~+

I knew that my friend had an evil streak in him at times, and that evening I found out just how much of one. The obnoxious Balthazar Novak was due to call, and I was sat reading on the settee. Cas walked round behind me, then leaned over and gently placed his hands on my shoulders. I wondered if he was going to try to scent me just to annoy his brother even further, but it seemed he had other plans.

V

He undid my top few buttons on my shirt, then slipped his hands inside. It had been a warm day so I was not wearing a vest, and he gently fingered around my nipples, teasing them to hardness. I groaned; it was frankly unfair that such a small thing could get me achingly hard, but that was the effect Cas had on me.

“After he is gone”, Cas whispered into my ear, “I am going to take you to my room and unwrap you, one delicious layer at a time. And I am going to see if I can make you come just by playing with your nipples, like.....

The bell rang, and I jerked in shock, narrowly managing to stop myself coming there and then. Mrs. MacAndrew had had a system of bells put in so that, when visitors called, guests could be informed that they were on their way. Since we (thankfully) had the rooms furthest from the front door, this meant we had about two minutes' warning before the maid would be knocking with our unwelcome guest. Cas swiftly re-did my buttons, and kissed me lightly on the back of the neck before moving swiftly to his own chair. I scurried over to the table to my notepad, trying desperately to get my heart-rate back to normal. 

Balthazar Novak was duly shown in, and dropped something on the table next to his brother. It was a tape-measure. Cas smiled, and looked knowingly at me, earning himself an impatient growl from his brother.

“Explain why he used such a dumb thing”, he demanded.

Cas raised an eyebrow at him. His brother grumbled under his breath.

“Please?” he managed, clearly a visible effort.

“Very well”, Cas said. “First, you will have to release Mr. Nicolo Ricoletti, as the only crime he is guilty of is an almost fatally bad taste in the selection of his dating partners.”

“What?”

“Second, you will have to contact the Italian Embassy, as they are not going to like what has happened”, Cas said firmly. “But well-handled, I think they will appreciate Her Majesty's Government's discretion in this matter.”

“Discretion over what?” Balthazar Novak demanded.

Cas settled himself into his chair, ignoring his brother's glares.

“At around two o'clock, Mrs. Gina Ricoletti calls on Miss Hanover to fit her for her new dress”, Cas began. “Miss Hanover was wearing a kimono, in expectation of her visit, and planned to change back afterwards. I believe that Mrs. Ricoletti told her she needed to measure her collar, then simply crossed with the tape-measure and pulled around the neck. The whole process would probably have taken less than a minute.”

“But why....?” his brother began.

“Because the local constable does his rounds in much the same way every day, Mrs. Ricoletti knew that he would be along the street between half past two and a quarter to three”, Cas said. “She has someone at the door watching out for him; her lover, Mr. Gianluca diMoro. Regrettably he will doubtless claim diplomatic immunity for his part in this affair, though I am sure the Italian government will have the decency to remove him to another post. Elba, hopefully.”

I smiled.

“On seeing Constable Penry-Jones turning into the street, Mr. diMoro returns to the house and forcibly stabs Miss Hanover in the neck, causing as much damage as possible to hide the bruising”, Cas went on. “Once the constable is near, Mrs. Ricoletti screams, then they immediately leave through the connecting door. Mr. diMoro had moved the dresser earlier that day, once Mr. Ricoletti had gone to work.”

“That reminds me, “I said, “how did you know he worked as a stonemason, if you never saw him?” 

Cas smiled.

“There was Portland stone dust on the floor in the Ricoletti house”, he explained. “And although the floor had been swept, there were still faint marks from where the dresser had been moved back and then forward again. Obviously Mrs. Ricoletti could not move such an item herself, so she had to have had an accomplice.”

“The Meissen vase!” I chuckled.

“Exactly”, he said. “To continue. The constable comes in and finds the blood-spattered knife, which Mrs. Ricoletti took from her ex-husband's coat the night before. His guilt is seemingly certain, and he will face the punishment she richly believes that he deserves.”

“But her former husband?” I objected.

“Mrs. Ricoletti is a passionate Italian”, Cas said, “patriotic flames which have doubtless been fanned by her liaison with Mr. diMoro. I do not doubt that the latter, possibly because of Mr. Ricoletti's objections to his suit, informed Mrs. Ricoletti of Miss Hanover's true status, and the desirability of getting rid of her. Doubtless he promised to wait the ten years if needed. Which of the two was more instrumental in the plot I cannot say, but I favour the lady. This was, in every sense, a crime of passion.”

+~+~+

Cas was right, of course. Her Majesty's Government presented the evidence to the Italians, and requested (off the record) that Mr. diMoro be withdrawn with immediate effect. There was a definite threat of him being declared persona non grata if he was not, but fortunately Rome saw sense, and he was out of the country within a week. Mrs. Ricoletti was charged with murder, but as she had dual citizenship, the British government accepted that she be allowed to serve a life sentence in an Italian jail, where she remains to this day. She was taken there via Durres, and had to suffer the indignity of watching her former husband become a free man despite her efforts to have him killed.

+~+~+

Our next case would involve the theft of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara, and an unexpected change of address for Cas and me.....


	7. Case 9: Hook Man (1878)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, referred to elsewhere as 'the case of Mrs. Farintosh's Opal Tiara'.

I

It was September of eighteen hundred and seventy-eight. I had at last officially become a doctor, my last essay having been submitted and passed a few months earlier. It was a cool late summer's day and I had the afternoon off, which was fortunate as I could join the crowds on the banks of the mighty River Thames. After much effort, both physical and diplomatic, a giant ancient obelisk from Egypt was this day finally being unveiled to public view. In typical London fashion it had been nicknamed 'Cleopatra's Needle', even though it dated from centuries before that famous queen. I despaired of my fellow citizens at time, but then again, it had taken nearly six decades to get the thing here, so I supposed that I would grant them some leeway.

Some ancient Egyptian queen's 'Needle' might be safe in its new home, but as I found out a few short hours later, I very soon might not be.

+~+~+

“We have a problem”, Cas announced gravely over dinner that evening.

“Another case?” I asked hopefully. Since the 'Ricoletti Murder', Cas had been involved in a number of minor cases, but none of them had been very interesting. And one particularly aggressive female had all but propositioned him whilst pressing him – physically as well as literally – to take her case, much to my displeasure and his eventual amusement.

“More serious than that”, he said. “We are about to be made homeless.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Mrs. MacAndrew suffered a fall coming up the stairs this morning, shortly after you left”, he explained. “Naturally I took her to the hospital, but the doctor says she needs complete rest and relaxation, and she has decided to go and live with her sister in Scotland to achieve this. Hence she is selling this house, which means we probably need to find somewhere else to live. The new owner may wish to keep us on, but we cannot be sure of that.”

My heart dropped. Yes, we had whatever our relationship was, but would Cas wish to continue it, or would he see this as an opportunity to break away and start out on his own? He was surely of that age when he would want to find a nice girl or omega and settle down.....

“I looked in the Times today”, he went on, seemingly unaware of my silent panic attack, “and a Mrs. Hall who lives in Cramer Street is offering rooms to let at a reasonable rate. It is not that far to your surgery, though not quite as close as here.”

That was surprisingly considerate, I thought. And he wanted us to remain together. My heartbeat began to return to normal.

“I do not know the road”, I said, calming down a little.

“It is off Thayer Street, less than half a mile from your famous – or infamous – Harley Street”, he said. “I went round today to take a preliminary look at the place. The rooms are similar to the ones we have here, and the area is pleasant enough. The only problem is that Mrs. Hall is planning to emigrate to the United States five years from now – it is all arranged - so she will definitely be selling the house at that time. But the rooms are good, and bearing in mind the urgency of our situation, it would do for now.”

He looked at me earnestly, and I was quietly touched that this amazingly clever man actually valued me as a friend. Though having, as Sammy had once said, the emotional capacity of a shoe box, I could not think of a way of expressing my gratitude. Thus I simply nodded.

“I know you are free this Saturday”, he said, “so I told Mrs. Hall we would be round to view the rooms then, and let her know our decision straight away. I hope that is acceptable?”

“That sounds very good”, I said. 

He nodded, and resumed his dinner.

+~+~+

Mrs. Evadne Hall was, on first sight, somewhat frightening. In fact, I retract the 'somewhat'. She was a large lady, and her excessive use of lavender water – it was like walking into a wall of scent - literally made my eyes run when I entered the house (it must have been worse for Cas, I only later realized, as he was mildly allergic to the horrible stuff). Fortunately, as things turned out, she owned two houses and lived in the other one, the Cramer Street property being run by her sister, Miss Letitia Hellingly. She was shorter, more refined and, mercifully, ninety-five per cent less pungent! Mrs. Hall was also eyeing up Cas in a way that was quite unbecoming, I thought; she was at least ten years older than him! Fortunately the rooms and terms both proved adequate and, on the (unspoken) understanding that we would see (and smell!) little of her, I agreed to the move.

Although I was supposed to have had the day off that day, it was just my luck that the surgery was called out to a patient at the other end of Cramer Street, and since they knew I would be there, they sent me a telegram asking me to call in when I could. Cas headed back to Montague Street, whilst I went to Number 13A. Unlucky for some, I thought as I knocked at the door.

I was with Miss Ophelia Mayberry for under a minute before I concluded that the only thing she was suffering from was an advanced case of hypochondria. Worse, she was also quite clearly desperate for an alpha, and I had had the bad luck to be here. Most patients exhibited at least some unease if I suggested a physical examination; she looked put out when I said one was not needed (even if it had been, I would have lied!). I did check her heartbeat, but she edged herself far too close to me in the process, and her perfume was overpowering!

Of course, Cas knew; I suppose it was the perfume that wafted off me as I re-entered our rooms. I set a bath running, and went to get changed, but he intercepted me. To my surprise he looked annoyed.

“Who was she?” he demanded.

“One of my patients, who wanted her physical examination to be a little too physical”, I said testily. I was looking forward to my long hot soak, and getting the scent of whatever it was – rhododendron, I think – of Miss Mayberry off of me. 

He continued to look hard at me, then his expression softened. To my surprise, he took my hand and led me into the bathroom. I noticed with some surprise that his voice had not dropped, which must mean.....

Oh. He was undressing me. Not with the normal, almost savage haste that preceded Sexy Times, but almost reverently, as if he were working on some piece of art. Although I would never have uttered the word, I felt positively cherished. He stopped occasionally to divest himself of most of his own clothes, though he retained those sexy white shorts I always loved so much. To me, they suggested a purity which underlay his character, yet contrasted with his aggression in bed.

He had also run the bath throughout this, so by the time I was naked and he nearly so, it was ready. I was almost horrified when he pressed a finger to his lips, then slipped from the room. Was he leaving me here after all that?

The answer came almost immediately, as he returned with a glass jar containing some yellow bath salts, the honey-scented ones I knew he used himself. 

“I hate that scent on you”, he whispered. “Let me replace it with my own.”

That was almost too much, the implied scenting of an alpha (even if it was with bath salts) by another alpha. But the look in his eyes was so sincere that I just nodded dumbly, and lowered myself quietly into the tub, whilst he spread some of the crystals around my body. If he had brought his own soap I might – well, possibly I might – have said something, but he used my own leathery-scented soap, gently cleaning my skin all over. Oddly, even when he cleaned my cock, there was nothing sexual about it; it was almost roma.....

I coughed violently, and he looked at me in alarm.

“Sorry”, I muttered. “I think some got in my mouth.”

He not yet done my face so he knew that must have been a lie, but mercifully he let it slide, whilst I tried to get my raging emotions under control. The sex with Cas was wonderful – stellar, even – but romance? That was a whole hornet's nest I did not want to start poking. Instead, I slid myself almost completely under the water, and smiled up at his face, his hair as impossibly wrecked as always.

Yes, I loved this man. How the hell did I get into situations like this?

+~+~+

I felt edgy the following day, and sought to divert my mind away from impossible dreams onto something more important. We were to make the shift to Cramer Street in three weeks' time – Mrs. MacAndrew's cousin from three doors down, her fellow Scotswoman Mrs. Ferguson, was running the house for her during this time - and the main room would need a major tidying. Cas' side of it reminded me of the first sight of his rooms with Stamford back in Oxford.

“What about your papers?” I ventured. 

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I have never got round to organizing them”, he said plaintively. “I suppose I should, really.”

“It might help in future cases?” I suggested.

He looked pointedly across at my own desk, which was markedly neat and tidy, and smiled somewhat. I have no idea why I said what I did next, but it was neither the first nor the last time my mouth would leave the station whilst my brain was still buying a ticket.

“I could order it for you?” I offered. “Unless, of course, there's things....”

“Dean?” he said softly, rubbing a hand up against my cheek. 

“Yes?” I sort-of-squeaked. It was a manly noise, all things considered.

“Of course I trust you.”

I blushed fiercely. If I were honest, I would have admitted that the prospect of seeing the many small cases I knew he undertook on his own was intriguing, but I also enjoyed cataloguing things in general, and knew I could make sense of the disaster area on the other side of the room.

II

By that evening, I was wondering if I had bitten off more than I could chew. On my instructions, Cas had gone out and purchases a number of large notebooks in which I intended to alphabetically categorize the people involved in the cases, and had then left when a message had arrived from his friend Henriksen. I wondered if it was another case.

My questions were answered when Cas returned that evening with a warm apple-pie from my favourite pastry shop, and some custard Mrs. Ferguson had whipped up for him. The man was a saint!

“Sergeant Henriksen wished to consult me over the disappearance of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara”, he explained, once we had finished eating. 

I sighed, feeling wonderfully full. 

“She is the sister of the Duchess of Montfort?” I said.

“I see you are still not reading the social pages in the morning!” Cas teased. I scowled. A man was entitled to a range of interests, damn it!

“How did she lose her tiara?” I asked.

“It is all very strange”, he said. “She travelled down with her husband from Argyllshire two days ago. She took the afternoon train from Lachlan Hall Halt, the private station by her sister's Lowland residence, to Glasgow, and thence the night sleeper to London. She definitely had the tiara on boarding the train at Glasgow, as she wore it to the dining coach.”

“Show-off”, I muttered.

Cas smiled at my remark.

“Her carriage was locked whilst she was in the dining-car, and as it was the one closest to the engine, no-one could have accessed it”, he explained. “She then returned to her coach, and turned in for the night. The following morning the maid woke her an hour prior to their arrival at Euston and checked on her tiara, only to find it gone.”

“Did the train stop anywhere?” I asked.

“Unusually, no”, he said. “It was a Caledonian Railway train, and the London and North Western, over whose metals much of the journey was accomplished, has lately fitted water-troughs so engines can travel non-stop. The train did slow down to approximately twenty miles per hour for a stretch around Watford, due to a signal, but did not stop.”

“So how could the tiara be stolen?” I asked. “I assume everyone was searched at Euston?”

“Mr. Farintosh demanded it”, Cas said. “Mr. Miles Buttermere, one of the railway's longest-serving employees, had visited her in her coach after dinner and checked if it was acceptable to lock everything up, or of she needed to send to the dining coach for anything. She acceded, and then went to bed. The tiara was definitely in her possession at that time. Equally definitely, it was not there eight hours later.”

“Mr. Buttermere could have done it”, I ventured.

Cas shook his head.

“He locked the carriage when Mrs. Farintosh left”, he said, “then went to attend to the other first-class passengers, in the carriage on the other side of the dining-car. He did not return until he was sent for, to allow them back into their own carriage.”

“So that leaves only the people in her coach”, I said.

Cas nodded. 

“The coach has one large compartment for passengers and two smaller ones for servants”, he said. “There is no way anyone could have accessed that coach during the journey, and yet indubitably the tiara was stolen. Hence a ring is drawn around Mrs. Cecily Farintosh, her husband Andrew, her maid Alice Bailey and her husband's valet Mr. Brian Martinson.”

“The husband?” I asked tentatively.

“Andrew Farintosh is fifty-one, a beta under-secretary in Her Majesty's government”, Cas said. “Unfortunately he has a predilection for gambling. His brother-in-law has already had to step in to clear his debts on at least one occasion.”

“Motive”, I said. “And opportunity.”

“On the other hand, it was he who was insistent about the police searching all three of them at Euston.”

I had a thought.

“What about Mrs. Farintosh herself?” I asked. “Was the tiara insured?”

Cas gave me that Look of his, as if I were a dog that had just performed a particularly difficult trick. I would have been insulted, but I rather valued those looks of praise, if only because they were so rare.

“A good point”, he said, “which is one reason that Henriksen is involved. Mr. Farintosh took out an insurance policy on it only last month, to the value of five thousand pounds!”

My eyes widened.

“The maid?” I asked.

“A girl of good character, so her mistress claims”, Cas said. “Alice Bailey, twenty-seven, and has been with her for three years. She would seem to have no motive, unless she were working with someone else.”

“The valet?” I asked.

“We are on shakier ground there”, Cas said. “Mr. Brian Martinson, an alpha. Thirty-six, and has spent time in jail. His family is loosely connected to the Farintoshes through a marriage some decades back, and Mr. Farintosh gave him his current post about twelve months ago. He has performed satisfactorily, Mr. Farintosh told the police, although there was a small matter of some gold cuff-links going missing some months back. They were never recovered.”

“It is a big jump from cuff-links to a tiara”, I observed. “The problem seems to be one of opportunity. I mean, it's not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window, is it?”

Cas gave me the Look again, though this time I had not the slightest idea what I had said to earn it.

“I think we should send Henriksen a telegram”, he said. “Sometimes, Winchester, you amaze me!”

Chuckling, he left the room. I stared after him in wonder.

III

Two days later, I was standing along with Cas and Sergeant Henriksen in one of the sidings of the London and North Western Railway company at Euston. Before us was the infamous sleeper carriage. Henriksen showed us inside.

“On Mr. Farintosh's orders, we went through the place from top to bottom, sir”, he said. “Even checked for secret compartments and the like.”

I smiled at that. Cas seemed intent on examining the area around the windows in the three mini-compartments. 

“Did you find out the information I requested?” he asked.

Henriksen took out a notebook. 

“Of the four people in the coach that night, only Mr. and Mrs. Farintosh undertook journeys of any length in the previous month”, he recited. “They stayed at a friend's house in London; Miss Bailey and Mr. Martinson were at Lachlan Hall.”

“Mr. Farintosh did not have his valet?” I asked, surprised. Maids were one thing, but using another man's valet was.... well, unthinkable.

“It was Mr. Martinson's week off”, Henriksen explained, “and Miss Bailey's grandmother, who lives near the Hall, was ill, so her mistress allowed her to remain there for the duration. The Argyllshire Police visited Lachlan Hall for me, and reported that as a mistress, Mrs. Farintosh was seen as hard but fair, whilst none of them thought much of her husband. I understand the Farintoshes were only in London for two weeks, which may be why they – or more likely Mrs. Farintosh – felt they would cope. They returned to Scotland on the fifth.”

“Together?” Cas asked.

Henriksen looked puzzled. 

“I do not see what....”

“Were they together?” Cas pressed. The sergeant looked annoyed, but answered anyway.

“No”, he said. “Mrs. Farintosh went to see a friend in West Suffolk – somewhere near Newmarket, I think - whilst Mr. Farintosh visited an acquaintance of his in Blackpool.”

“The town of Blackpool is accessed by a branch-line from the town of Preston, I believe?”

Henriksen stared at him in confusion

“Yes”, he said at last. “My wife and I went there on our holiday last year.”

Cas thought for a moment. 

“I need to see outside the coach”, he said.

“Outside?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes”, he insisted. “Come!”

He led the way, and we were soon outside the compartment. There was a raised plank walkway to enable people to, presumably, clean the coach windows, and Cas sprang easily up onto it. He stared around the two window frames, then smiled.

“The case is nearly complete”, he said, to my amazement. “Henriksen, did you bring in Mr. Martinson?”

“I did, sir. Is he....?”

“We have a call to make before we speak to him”, Cas said. “Let us not keep him waiting!”

He led the way out of the siding. Henriksen looked at me with an expression of frustration, one which I all too readily shared.

And why we stopped at a hardware store on the way and Cas purchased a single bamboo cane, I could not begin to imagine.

+~+~+

“Mr. Martinson!”

Cas smacked the cane down on the desk in front of the valet. I had thought he looked pale already, but for some reason the sight of that slender piece of wood made him turn a whole new shade of white. 

“Sir, please, I beg of you!”

Cas took out a notebook and pencil, and slid them across to him.

“All is known”, he said firmly. “Your best hope of avoiding a return to jail is to write the address – you know the one to which I refer – in that book, within the next sixty seconds.”

“I can't....”

Cas' face softened.

“If you do”, he said, much more quietly, “I give you my word I will do what I can for you. But only if you help me first.”

I could see the moment when the man broke. His hands shaking, he somehow managed to write something in the book provided. Cas took it and ushered us all out of the room.

“Sergeant, get a warrant, then take as many men as you can to this address, and search it from top to bottom”, he said. “With luck, you won't have to look too hard. My belief is that the person there will not be expecting anyone to come looking.”

“Looking for what, sir?”

“Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara!” Cas chuckled.

+~+~+

As luck would have it, our trip to Sergeant Henriksen's station coincided with a pair of trousers I had ordered arriving for collection at a nearby clothier's. Cas said we would return there in an hour, by which time he expected the search of the property whose name Mr. Martinson had yielded to provide the missing item. I still did not see how the crime could have possibly been committed or by whom, but I knew Cas would enlighten me.

I went into one of the changing-rooms to try on my new purchase, but I had scarcely hung them up before Cas slipped in behind me. I turned in surprise, if not anticipation. 

“What do think of these, Dean?” he asked.

He was less than two inches away from me, the changing-room not obviously being designed for more than one person. I could not back away from him without hitting the mirror behind me, so I looked down at what he was holding. Then I gasped.

“What on earth...?”

It looked like some sort of modern version of an old Roman soldier's skirt, about fifteen straps of leather all hanging down, with pointed ends. 

“Who on earth would wear something like that?” I asked, incredulously.

He smirked at me, and played teasingly with the... whatever the hell it was, before placing it on the chair next to my very sensible trousers and backing out of the changing-room. I stared after him in shock. What was he thinking? There was no way a trusty English doctor would ever wear something like that!

+~+~+

His smirk as we returned to the station half an hour later was incredibly annoying. It had been bad enough paying for the dratted thing; the shop assistant had looked at me far too knowingly, but Cas had the look of the cat that just knows it's going to get the cream.

We'd see about that!

+~+~+

I have to say that I rather liked Mrs. Andrew Farintosh. Though I did see her at her best, when she entered the interview room and the first thing she saw was her opal tiara on the table.

“You have found it!” she boomed. “That is wonderful!”

“Thanks to this gentleman”, Henriksen said gruffly. “Mr. Castiel Novak.”

“Then you shall most definitely have the reward I was going to offer!” she declared. “I am so happy!”

Cas escorted her to a chair, and I sensed he was did not share our visitor's happiness. Something was wrong.

“There is, my lady, still the matter of how the tiara was taken, and by whom”, he reminded her.

Her face darkened.

“I am sure it was not my dear Alice!” she declared stoutly.

IV

“I can guarantee that your maid is quite innocent”, Cas told her. 

She smiled.

“Unlike your husband”, he added. 

That got rid of the smile.

“Impossible!” she declared. “Why, the policemen at Euston searched all of them thoroughly, Andrew included.” She suddenly paled. “You do not think that I.....”

“Madam, I am also sure of your innocence”, Cas said firmly. “Unhappily, I am equally sure of your husband's guilt.”

“I do not see how he could have done it”, I pointed out.

Cas took the chair across from the lady.

“This was an ingenious crime”, he said, “and had it not been for the good doctor here, I might not have realized just how it had been accomplished.”

“Me?” I exclaimed.

He nodded.

“When we were discussing the case”, he said, “your exact words were, 'it's not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window, is it?'”

“From a moving train?” I queried. “Do you mean he had someone by the side of the line?”

“In the dark and on a train which, if it were just a few minutes off schedule, could be miles north or south of a fixed point?” Cas chuckled. “No. He was cleverer than that. Do you remember how he visited Blackpool shortly prior to the theft?”

We all nodded, though I could not for the life of me see how that Lancashire resort would have anything to do with this.

“One of the wonders of our age”, Cas said, “is the travelling post office. Using a system of hooks and nets, bags can be brought onto the train and taken off without stopping.”

I finally began to see. 

“Your husband familiarized himself with the system, and how the night sleeper always exchanged bags at Preston Station, the junction for Blackpool”, Cas explained to a stunned Mrs. Farintosh. “He coerced his valet into obtaining the tiara, placed it in a parcel he had prepared earlier, and at the appropriate time hung it out of the window on a bamboo cane hook. When the station staff at Preston came to collect the bags, they would not think it overly odd that one parcel had somehow slipped out.”

I suddenly remembered.

“The marks on the coach!” I exclaimed.

“Yes”, Cas said. “I had hoped there might be a small splinter of wood inside the coach, but your husband cleaned the area well. However, the slash of the breaking bamboo cane left a scratch mark on the outside of the coach exactly where I knew to look for it.”

“So my own husband stole from me!” Mrs. Farintosh said heavily.

“I am sorry”, Cas said sincerely. “He posted it to an old servant of his who, fortunately, lived in London. I obtained the address from Mr. Martinson earlier today, which is how you now have your tiara back. May I be so bold as to ask a favour?”

“Of course!” she said. “Anything!”

“Please can you provide a reference for Mr. Martinson?” Cas asked, sounding almost humble. “I know he had his part in this, but he was coerced, and I would like for this not to ruin the rest of his life.”

She smiled at him.

“I am so grateful for all you did”, she said. “Yes. I shall provide you such a reference. I shall be staying at my sister's London house in Grosvenor Square if I am needed again, sergeant.”

“I am afraid that we shall have to keep the tiara for evidence, at least until your husband confesses”, Henriksen said. “But I promise you we shall return it as soon as possible.”

“I know it is safe”, she smiled. “That is enough for me.”

We all bowed as she stood up, and sailed majestically out of the room. Henriksen scratched his bald head.

“Why a bamboo cane?” he asked. “Surely he knew it could break?”

Cas nodded.

“He counted on it”, he said. “There was the danger that, in breaking, the rod used might smash against the window of the coach. If the wood had been too strong, sergeant, it might well have broken that window, impacting it at a speed of several dozen miles per hour.”

“Oh”, he said. “I see. Well, I'd better get round to Mr. Farintosh. Don't want to keep a gentleman waiting!”

He left, and we followed him.

+~+~+

The following morning, I woke feeling exhausted, Cas had insisted on trying out my new item of apparel, and subjecting it to very thorough testing. I was incredibly glad that it was my day off.

So glad, in fact, that without thinking I went to the door without thinking when I heard the knock. Outside stood Mrs. Ferguson, who stared at me incredulously.....

Ye Gods, I was still wearing it! I wanted to die!

“Losh sakes, doctor!”, she chuckled. “You've made an old woman very happy!”

I was going to kill Cas!

+~+~+

It will doubtless come as no surprise to the reader that Mrs. Farintosh immediately sued for divorce from her husband which, unusual as it was in the seventies, was quickly granted. Mr. Andrew Farintosh served a decade of hard labour for his crime, and upon his release had the decency to take himself off to southern Africa, from where he was never heard of again. It will also doubtless not surprise the reader that Cas was as good as his word, and two months later Mr. Brian Martinson had a new post as footman in one of London's top clubs, where he did very well for himself.

+~+~+

Thus concluded my first two wonderful years with Cas. A new home together would soon be ours, but unbeknownst to both of us, dark clouds were already gathering which would threaten our happy arrangement.

Whatever that arrangement was.


End file.
